FORGED IN HEAT
by Turretwithaview
Summary: AU: This is somewhere and sometime not yet clearly defined even in my mind ... I don't even know what category to put it in lol, but the bunny wanted out and I had to go with the bunny.
1. Chapter 1

**AU: This is somewhere and sometime not yet clearly defined in my mind, but the bunny wanted out and I had to go with the bunny. As to my other, unfinished stories, I will get back to them sometime. Unfortunately I got bummed off with Castle (or at least the writers) and needed some time away. Added to all sorts of changes in life (moving house and possibly selling the business amongst them), I've had little time to sit back and write. To those of you who have messaged, thanks for your continued interest in my stories and I promise to do my best to wrap them up over the winter. To all of you who might have got this far** **J** **…. Hope you enjoy, but don't expect too many (or any) updates soon. However I would like to know what you think! Thanks, Turret**

 **NB: Fighting iron (steel)**

* * *

 **FORGED IN HEAT**

The ring of hammer on iron resonated out over the river clearing, an almost rhythmic beat which rose up the mountainside behind and lost itself amongst the trees which clad the higher slopes. Young Richard leant against the wooden post of the smithy's and watched his father at work, the strong features, barely masked by the neatly trimmed silvery beard, blazed in the orange glow of the furnace, the easy rise and fall of the muscular arm creating a larger-than-life, shadowy imitation against the rear wall.

The bright orange glow of heated metal began to dull as the hammer beat out the newest blade against the anvil. His father struck the steel one more time and then raised it to squint along the elongated strip of almost-formed sword, experienced eye checking for imperfections, for variations in thickness or almost-imperceptible cracks which might indicate a badly tempered blade.

His eyes shifted sideways, glimpsed his son near the entrance and he set the blade down on the anvil, a smile cracking his face and showing strong, white, even teeth. He jerked his head and young Richard grinned as he made his way over to where his father stood before the furnace.

James Hunter puller the smaller apron off the hook on one of the posts and threw it over towards his son who was showing all the signs of growing into an equally large version of himself. Still only twelve, he was tall for his age, his shoulders beginning to show the work he put into the smithy, legs strong and powerful from the five mile walk each day to and from the local chapel where the priest tried his best to drill the basics of reading, writing and the mathematics into the restless minds of a handful of kids who would much rather be out in the forest hunting for game or diving into the deep river pools near Ronik's Gorge or catching tadpoles and dropping them down the back of Lucy Cooper's dress.

Hunter senior carefully placed the almost-finished blade on the rack as his son donned the leather apron, pulled the straps round and tied them off at the front. Satisfied he rolled his shoulders as he'd often seen his father do before starting work for the day. Moving over to a rack at the back of the shed he pulled out a length of steel. To call it a blade at this stage would be a misconception.

It was not the first 'blade' he had shaped; from the age of seven, when he was first able to wrap his small hand around the smoothly-worn haft of the light hammer usually kept for the more intricate work, his father had allowed him to progress from the pumping the bellows to working at the anvil. Patiently, over the months and then the years, James Hunter had shown his son how to judge the correct heat from the glow of the metal … neither too yellow nor too white, the glow had to be just right.

As he grew and his hands became larger and more calloused, he was able to start using the heavy hammer. At first he had been able to deliver no more than a half-dozen blows before the weight of the hammer and the heat of the furnace became too much. Now, at twelve he was able to work for several hours, his arm no longer screaming from pain as he developed the rhythm of beating metal, letting the bounce of hammer on steel do the initial work, his muscles taking on the slack only on the final raise before allowing the hammer's own weight to pull it down for the next blow.

But as he stared down at the length of metal in his hands, he knew this blade was different and couldn't help smiling to himself as he ran his hand over the still rough metal. Till now, he had simply hammered out the bars of fighting iron his father had prepared in the smelting yard at the back of the shed. This curious mix of soft iron and hard iron was completely of his own making, as, guided by his father's careful and sometimes mysterious instructions, he had smelted his first piece of fighting iron.

 _It had been a cold morning, the sun hiding behind a steely-grey sky and a chilly breeze blowing down the mountainside. They had each sat on upended logs which served both for seating and work surfaces as the need arose. Richard had shivered when an icy finger of air had found its way under his shirt and then watched attentively as his father carefully unwrapped a cloth-covered bundle._

 _The item revealed had been a book, its leather covers worn and cracked, the letters faded to little more than a feathery shadow of themselves. With great care, his father had opened the cover and turned the brittle pages till he'd found the place he wanted. Clearing his throat and throwing Richard a sharp glance to make sure he was attentive; his father had begun to recite mysterious words in his deep, deliberate voice._

"Take soft iron pieces of small price, and put it into a pot, strewing upon it, cover it, and make a good fire about it: then at the time fit, take the pot with iron pinchers; and striking the pot with a hammer, quench the whole herness red hot in water; for so it becomes hard ... but, lest the blade should be broken, and flie in pieces, there must be strength added to hardness. Workman call it a return. Take it out of the water, shake it up and down in vinegar, that it may be polished and the colour be made perspicuous: than make red hot a plate of iron and lay upon the same: when it shows an ash colour, cast it again into water, and that hardness abated, and it will yield to the stroke more easily: so of a blade you shall have one that will resist all blows."

 _It was several moments after his father had stopped reading and sat staring at him with raised eyebrows that Richard had realised he was staring back agape and slammed his mouth shut. The words had meant little to him apart from those he was able to pick out as everyday ones._

 _Carefully his father had rewrapped the book in its cloth, set it down on a nearby log and picked up a piece of iron about two foot long and of the thickness of his rather large thumb. Handing it to Richard he had pointed to it and said, "I want you to try to bend that."_

 _Looking rather sceptically at is father, the young lad had put all his effort into bending the metal rod. After several fruitless moments, with perspiration cooling on his brow, Richard had given up, shaking his head at the impossibility of the feat. "Now strike that stone with all your strength," had added his father, pointing to a rock about the size of a head which rested on the ground beyond them._

 _Wordlessly acquiescing, Richard had hefted the bar in his hand, then struck the rock as hard as he could. Much to his surprise, and once he'd recovered from the tingling sensation the shock of the blow had sent up and down his arm, he'd noticed the bar was bent slightly around the point of impact and after staring at the deformed rod for several minutes, had turned inquiring eyes towards his father._

 _"That son, is wrought iron. Imagine what would happen if you went into battle with a sword made from that." Richard had stared at the bent piece of metal in his hand, had looked closely at where the iron had struck a ridge in the stone and acquired a slight indentation and scratches. He'd looked at the rock, saw where the bar had also left its mark, an almost-white scar of chipped stone._

 _"If you're going to make a sword, a sword that you'll be depending on to save your life, you need to be sure that it will withstand not just a single strike, but many strikes; strikes against shields, against armour, against other blades … against bone and flesh and wood and dirt. To make such a sword, you need to use fighting iron, and no bladesmith, no swordsmith is worth a jot unless he knows how to make his own!"_

 _"But don't you buy your fighting iron from the traders?"_

 _"Only when required to produce large amounts of blades, such as last year, when the King went to war against Raghan; making fighting iron is a complex process … something of a mystery also .… it takes long hours and tremendous skill to produce. I make my own for the blades I am commissioned, but when the king needs to arm poor peasants who would be just as well using pitchforks and scythes and mercenaries who care not a jot for King or country …" he'd shaken his head on a sigh._

 _Young Richard had nodded in understanding and watched and listened closely as his father lifted the lid from a simple clay pot and began to explain the procedure. From the satchel at his feet he'd removed a small set of scales and set them on the upended trunk between them. Holding out a small leather pouch to Richard, he'd indicated the smallest weight and told him to add it to the scales. Next he'd explained that the bag contained finely ground charcoal. He'd indicated he should start pouring onto the other scale until they became levelled. He'd overdone it a little and his father had patiently told him to scoop some of it back into the pouch._

 _When the scales were level he'd lifted the measured powder and poured it into the pot, then, following his father's instructions, he'd begun to weigh pieces of wrought iron, adding them to the pot until a specific weight had been reached. Next, and again following his father's instructions, he'd replaced the lid on the pot and sealed it with some fresh clay._

 _"There are two ways to create fighting iron Richard, but of the two, this is the best. Why it should be so, I don't know … no one does, but this method gives you fighting iron that is equally strong throughout the whole, the other method gives you a blade which has both weak and strong parts to it. A soldier will not trust you a second time if you sell him a sword which breaks on impact or remains bent at the first or second blow!"_

 _Next, Richard had set about preparing the smelt. He built a tinder nest in the centre of the pit and then carefully added coal to it. Making sure the bellows had a good clear mouth, he'd set light to the tinder and began to slowly pump the bellows, watching as the fire turned to a glowing bed of coals. His father had indicated it was time to add the pot to the coals and that he should now procure to keep them at an even temperature, a red-hot flame as he had shown him on many occasions._

 _The cool of the morning had soon faded as Richard kept a careful eye on the coals, adding small amounts as needed and a steady rhythm on the bellows. His father had sat, saying little but nodding occasionally in approval. As the sun had risen higher in the sky, weakly attempting to penetrate the steely overcast, Richard had wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm and then changed hands on the bellows, shaking his arm in an attempt to loosen the cramped muscles._

 _His father had leant forward, nodding at the clay pot which in turn was glowing brightly amid the coals. "A swordsmith's goal is to produce a sturdy fighting blade that is hard enough to hold a fine edge or point, yet also resilient … one that will flex under strain but immediately after return true. The right amount of powder, the right amount of metal, and you will have a decent piece of fighting iron. Too little of the one, too much of the other, and your blade will crack the first time you temper it … or worse still, the first time it strikes a blow."_

 _"How do you know how much of each you need?"_

 _His father had shrugged, "I'm afraid it's something of a mystery, son. It took me many years to find just the right mix that seems to magically transform normal iron into fighting iron. As you saw, that was barely half a spoon of powder …. a fraction more, a fraction less and you might as well use it to make table platters. A swordsmith has to base it all on his experience of what, as best he can tell, has worked well before."_

 _It was some time before his father, staring intently at the pot, had nodded his head and indicated it was time to remove it from the coals. A relieved Richard had stepped away from the bellows, stretching and trying to shake some life into tired limbs before picking up the tongs and carefully lifting the pot from the coals._

 _"Do you remember what the next stage was?"_

 _He'd thought back to the somewhat mysterious text his father had begun the whole process with and hesitatingly said, "Strike it with a hammer?"_

 _James Hunter had grinned and nodded in approval. "Use the bar and be careful not to stand too close!"_

 _Richard had picked up the wrought iron rod he'd bent earlier in the morning and gave the clay pot a hefty tap. The pot shattered into shards of burnt clay and a fist-sized piece of shapeless fighting iron had been revealed in its centre. "What now?" had asked his father._

 _A bit of a hesitation, then "Quench it in water?"_

 _At his nod, Richard had used the tongs again to prise the lump of metal from the shards and drop it into the cask of water that sat next to the smelting pit. There had been a fierce hissing and a rising cloud of steam as he had plunged the tongs deep into the water. He'd waited for the fierce bubbling to subside before withdrawing the tongs and their prize._

 _"What you now have is hard iron, hard but brittle. You now need to add strength to it. First though, dip it in the brine cask to clean it off."_

 _Richard had done as indicated, moving the tongs around within the brine-filled cask for several minutes before pulling it out. The lump of metal had taken on a certain sheen, pitted surfaces notwithstanding._

 _"New return it to the fire Richard, but this time, keep the heat lower, you don't want to overheat it or you'll need to start all over again!_

 _Richard had nodded, turned back to the bellows and used slow, measured pumps to keep the coals at the right temperature. As the metal began to change colour, his father had told him to watch carefully. As it began to take on a pale grey tone, James Hunter pointed to it and a few moments later had said. "Take it out now, and straight into the water again!"_

Now, days later, hefting the elongated piece of metal in his hand, he felt tremendous pride at what he had accomplished so far. Turning to the forge, he raked the coals and set his foot to the pedal which controlled the bellows. Satisfied he pushed his 'blade' into the coals and grabbed the tongs, occasionally turning the shaft as it took on the colour of white-hot metal. He wiped his mouth on his shoulder, gave the shaft one more turn and then pulled it free and over to the anvil.

Picking up the hammer, its wooden haft worn smooth by years of wear and sweat and heat, Richard began to pound the glowing metal, loving how it stretched and writhed and took on new shapes as he pummelled it with the hammer. Every now and then, he'd hold it up to catch the light, checking the straightness of the blade, the smoothness of the edges. As it cooled, he'd return it to the furnace; turning and twisting it until it was once again white hot and ready to be shaped into his blade.

Martha stood just outside the front door to the house, her hands on Richard's shoulders as she held him close before her. They both watched as James Hunter strapped the final bundle of swords onto the pack-horse's back before giving him a hefty pat on the neck and turning back to face them.

His beard pointed proudly forwards, his eyes crinkled in amusement at the concern on his wife's face and he strode across the dirt towards them. Crouching down he looked shrewdly at his son's downcast features. The lad had wanted desperately to accompany him, but it couldn't be. It would take him a week to reach the capital, another few days of hanging around before he could gain audience with the King. Several more days of negotiating with the King's Marshal … no, he could not keep his eye on the twelve-year-old and do business at the same time. In a couple of years …. when the lad was a little more aware of the world … then maybe. With a sigh, he tucked his fingers under the boy's chin and lifted his face so they could look each other in the eye. "I'll be gone the best part of a month son, so I need you to be brave and to look after your mother, understood?"

He got a half-reluctant, half-sulky nod in return. James Hunter hid a grin, glancing quickly up at his wife's face and then back at his son's. "You'll have to make sure the hens are fed, the stables cleaned, and the horses looked after. I also need you to help your mother and to do whatever she says."

The scowl was still there, but also a reluctant acceptance. His son knew just how far he could push … "I also want you to keep working on your blade. It's almost finished, leave the tempering till I get back, but you can still improve it a little and work on the hilt."

There was a little more enthusiasm there and James tousled his son's hair before standing straight and pulling him in for a hug. The lad's arms tightened round his waist and it surprised the father, it seemed only months ago that he'd barely been able to wrap then round his legs! Soon the lad would be standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

Easing the lad away from him, he nodded over to where the black gelding stomped impatiently, nostrils flaring in anticipation of the forthcoming trip. "Go keep Thursar quiet will you, while I have a word with your Mother?"

Richard nodded, glancing quickly to see if his mother was going to …. once again … warn him to be careful around Thursar, but she seemed preoccupied with something else, her hand on his father's shoulder and tears in her eyes. He beat a hasty retreat while he could.

It was several moments later when his father slipped his foot into the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle. Thursar shuffled a little and snorted in disgust, then settled down as he felt his master's hands on the reins.

Richard and Martha watched from the front of the house as James Hunter slipped the pack-horse's reins over the saddle horn and turned to wave them goodbye. With a nudge of his foot, he walked the gelding away from them, the pack-horse fallowing faithfully behind. The two watched as rider and horses moved up the rising path towards the trees in the distance. All three travellers paused on reaching the treeline, the rider turning to wave before moving into the trees and out of sight.

Martha let out a gusty sigh, put her arms round her son's shoulders and let the way into the house. She pushed the boy ahead of her and paused in the doorway, turning once more to look up the mountain where her husband had disappeared from view.

Unbeknown to her, it would be the last time either of them were to see him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – Fourteen Years Later**

He hefted the blade in his hand, judging the weapon's balance points and centre of gravity, it still needed some work, but so far it felt right in his hand. It had taken two days of repeated hammering and re-heating until he had the length, width, and thickness he wanted. He'd had to work the sides, edges, and tang into shape and now it was ready for tempering.

His father's teachings and his own experience had taught him that a finely crafted sword had to have just the right mix of good fighting iron as well as just the right temper. Heat treatment was the final crucial step that gave the blade its strength and toughness. Returning the blade to the coals, he worked the bellows and kept turning the blade within the coals until it reached a bright yellow colour. Removing the blade from the coals he stepped over to the cask of oil and plunged the blade in and then pulled it out immediately. A great flare of fire rose up the metal, past the tongs and but for the thick leather glove on his hand would have burnt his fingers. The flames quickly died and he turned the blade this way and that, liking the smooth, even, burnished colour of the metal. Replacing it in the furnace, he continued to turn the blade every few minutes, moving it back and forth until it reached a dull red. Again he removed the blade and this time he plunged it into the cask of water. It took him another hour of slowly heating and then sudden quenching of the blade before he was satisfied.

He carried the blade out into the daylight and slowly inspected the surface from tip to tang checking for any cracks the blade might have developed during the tempering. Any hairline cracks or lines would indicate a weakened blade which could break or shatter on impact. The blade looked perfect. With a sigh of satisfaction he returned inside. He set the blade down on the bench and stretched to ease cramped muscles. Now that the blade had cooled, it was ready to be honed until the edge and point had the desired sharpness. His musings were interrupted by a low, grumbling growl followed moments later by the clop of hooves outside.

"Quiet, Jaspar!" Ducking out under the overhang he straightened up and raised a hand in welcome just as his mother emerged from the house. The wolfhound followed him out and after a quick glance at his master's relaxed posture, settled down with a sigh by his feet.

"Hanwyn! It's good to see you!" Martha called out as she approached them.

Hanwyn Gent, hawker by trade and a great source of information on a variety of topics from court gossip and rumours of political unrest to places and people from distant lands was always a welcome visitor. As he climbed off his horse, Richard noted the tiredness and suggested Hanwyn accompany his mother indoors and he'd see to the horse and mule. Hanwyn nodded in appreciation, reached up to remove a case from the mule's pack and then followed Martha into the house.

Richard unsaddled the horse, removed the panniers from the mule, grabbed a length of rope from one of the shed's posts and led both animals down to the river, the hound getting to its feet and following him. He allowed them to drink their fill before tying one end of the rope to a tree, threading the opposite end through the reins and pegging it to the ground. He checked that both animals were content to graze the grass growing on the riverbank and returned to the shed.

He hung the apron on its hook, covered the furnace with a metal plate and strode through the sunlight to the front door. He stripped off his shirt and washed at the large wooden bucket set to the side of the door. The homemade soap made him blink when some got into his eye but eventually he felt reasonably clean. Wiping himself down with the rough cloth which hung on a hook above the bucket, he rolled up his shirt and entered the house.

The evening was mild, the darkness outside countered by the moon, its reflection on the slow-moving river occasionally disturbed by sporadic clouds. The two men sat at the table in the main room, the low-hung rafters casting shadows on the ceiling as the oil lamps sputtered in the breeze coming through the open windows. They kept their voices low, Martha having retired to bed some time earlier.

Richard picked up the intricately woven barrette, its copper and brass scrollwork a work of art. Hanwyn watched the delicate hairpiece being turned this way and that in the large hands of the fellow sitting opposite him. It was difficult to believe how the young boy who had lost his father over a decade ago had become the large, confident man across the table. "From overseas you say?"

Hanwyn nodded, "A strange ship and a stranger skipper … at the docks in Eastbay Harbour."

"Strange in what way?"

The hawker shrugged, shifted in his chair and stretched out his legs. The hound groaned in protest and moved further under the table. "The sails to start with, I've never seen their like," and noting the interest in his companion's face, he took a sip of mead and continued, "a sail on either beam, like the wings of a bat … a most strange appearance it gave her as she approached the harbour entrance … like some bird of prey descending on its quarry," shaking his head at the memory.

"And the skipper?"

A glint of light bounced off the hairpiece as the swordsmith turned the delicate piece between his fingers. Hanwyn closed his eyes and tilted his head back, the lines upon his face and the wrinkles in the skin about his neck showing his age and making Richard sorry to be keeping the man up till late. His visitor placed his glass on the table, turned and staring into the flame of the lamp said, "A swarthy fellow, dark eyes that gave nothing away, his hair was long, pulled up and back and tied with a band up here," his hand touching the crown of his head as he spoke, "it reminded me of a horse's tail. He wore blue britches of a shiny cloth I've never seen and a wide sash around his middle with a sword on either hand. You would have been interested … they were slim and curved, one a little shorter than the other."

Richard was fascinated, but he should allow their visitor some sleep. Placing the hairpiece on the table he pushed it across and suggesting they get some sleep, rose to his feet. Hanwyn nodded and did likewise, taking one of the lamps, he wished Richard a good night and slipped out the front door.

Richard slowly doused all but one of the lamps and stepped outside. He breathed in a lungful of night air, tasting the humidity from the river and the scent of pine from the mountain behind. He turned his face up to stare at the star-studded sky and wondered about faraway lands and ships with sails like bats and curved swords in sashes.

He turned as sound reached him from the stables; saw the light of the lamp shining through the cracks in the cladding and then darkness as Hanwyn settled down. He walked down to the riverbed and checked on the hawker's animals. The horse stomped and blew through his nostrils at his approach but stretched his head forwards and nuzzled his hand in recognition. The mule flicked its ears back and forth but otherwise ignored him. A light splash came from the river as a fish jumped clear, the ripples glinting in the moonlight as they rolled in amongst the reeds and disappeared.

Richard turned back to the house, closed the door behind him and stooping low beneath the beams of the main room, picked up the lamp from the table, nudged the dog with his foot and made his way towards his bedroom, his faithful companion padding quietly behind him.

He was up at the crack of dawn, a pale light filtering through his window. He rose quietly, the boards creaking beneath his feet as he made his way to the kitchen. Dipping a cup into the bucket of water he took a long drink, slaking his thirst and rubbing his face as he peered out into the back yard. Jaspar was out, nose to the ground as he followed some mysterious scent. Richard watched him nosing amongst the logs of the woodpile, ears twitching forwards as he picked up some sound or other. The three horses stood close together in the far corner of small paddock, heads down as they nibbled at weeds and wild grasses, quite content after a night spent outside.

Turning away, he headed for the front door and stepped out into the quiet of the early morning. Faint lapping could be heard from the river where some disturbance must have caused waves or ripples. Hanwyn's horse was still asleep, resting on three legs, head hanging low. The mule however had seen him, ears pricked forward as it stared up at the house.

The first, half-hearted birdcalls floated down from the trees, a hesitant reaction to the encroaching dawn light. Soon they would be in full flow, the calls piercing and cheerful as they greeted a new day, but right now it was an almost magical moment where everything and everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

Richard hung his fresh shirt on a hook over the wash bucket and proceeded with his morning's ablutions. He dried off with the dew-dampened cloth and was just tying up his shirt front when the stable door creaked open and a tousled looking Hanwyn emerged.

By the time the animals had been seen to, the stable and smithy swept clean, fresh water fetched from the river and casks filled, Martha had breakfast ready and all three settled down to eggs with smoked ham, freshly baked bread and cider made from wild apples.

Breakfast over, both men stepped outside and settled down on the log bench positioned against the house to the left of the doorway. The wolfhound appeared from round the corner of the house and flopped down next to Richard, tongue hanging and ribs heaving as he recovered from whatever foray had drawn him away. Hanwyn pulled his pipe from his pocket; the long, slim briar yellowed from age and use and began to slowly fill the bowl, eyes fixed on his busy fingers. Once lit, he took a couple of puffs, as if testing his ability to prepare a good smoke, before settling back and resting his shoulders against the wall of the house. Richard waited quietly, familiar with the routine, though he had a feeling there was something worrying the old man. He stretched his fingers down and gently rubbed the dog between the ears.

"When will you take the next batch of swords to Ylont?"

Richard turned his head and looked quizzically at the hawker. His visits to the capital had never been a matter of discussion beforehand … other than in passing reference. "Probably next month, I'm finishing a couple of pieces for Lord Loughor, but I'm also working on a special blade, I'm hoping the king will take a fancy to it."

Hanwyn nodded in understanding, took another puff of his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke upwards, his eyes crinkling closed as he did so. When he lowered his head, he turned to look straight at the younger man, pale blue eyes showing worry and some doubt. "Be careful young Hunter, and don't be too quick to form allegiance to the lords and masters of Ylont."

Richard narrowed his eyes and shifter slightly till he was half-facing the hawker. He said nothing, just stared at the older man in anticipation. Almost reluctantly, Hanwyn removed the pipe from his mouth, stared into the bowl as if he could see the future held within, and then leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees. Richard slowly followed suit, eyes boring into the side of the other man's head and waited.

"There are rumours …. rumours of unrest and intrigue, of conspiracies and upheaval. They come from different sources, sometimes from the north, sometimes the south, sometimes it's a ship's captain in some harbour on the eastern coast, sometimes it's a traveller in the mountains to the west. But each time, no matter where the rumour comes from, there is always a name … whispered in fear, in awe … I'm not sure which ….."

Richard waited, then prodded impatiently, "What name?"

"Flede Ierfeweard"

"Flede what?" asked a puzzled Richard.

"Ierfeweard, it means heir … rightful heir, in the old tongue," tapping the bowl of the pipe out on the bench and slipping it back into his pocket as he finished speaking.

"But … but that died out ages ago, back before my grandfather's time!"

Hanwyn shook his head, then rubbed the palm of his hands together before answering. "The old tongue was banned …. It did not die out of its own accord. And now it would seem that some are intent on reviving _it_ and the old ways."

"The old ways?"

Hanwyn pushed himself to his feet, dusted himself down as though breakfast crumbs might still cling to his coat, and turned to the younger man who remained seated in shock.

"Ask your mother about the old ways if you must Richard, but when you go to the capital, keep your eyes and ears sharp and trust no man … or woman!" With that, Hanwyn turned, pushed open the front door and called out for Martha.

The sun was barely a few degrees above the horizon when Richard strode down to the river and gathered the hawker's animals. He led them back up to the front yard and tethered them to a couple of posts. He helped Hanwyn load the mule, and pretended to ignore the bundle Martha slipped the hawker as he pulled tight the last of the straps. There was some tacit agreement from he knew not when. His mother got to pick needles and threads and occasional trinkets while the hawker recounted all the latest court gossip and scandals … and Hanwyn Gent slept in a warm stable, enjoyed some family meals and got to ride away with a bundle of food. He, Richard, had never seen any money exchange hands and was wise enough, despite his youth, to keep his mouth shut; especially after this morning's revelations.

Hanwyn pulled himself up into the saddle, picked up the reins and turned his horse. He walked him forwards till he reached to spot where Richard stood and leant down, extended his hand to the younger man. They shook, no words exchanged but a clear warning shone in the older man's eyes and Richard gave a slow nod in recognition.

He watched the peddler and carrier of dangerous bodings ride up the same path his father had taken long ago. Then he had been a little wistful, a little jealous … now, he was pensive, a little worried … he suddenly felt as if the very trees were observing him warily.

Sometime later he was back in the smithy, holding the cold blade against a slowly turning fine-grain stone as he gave the sword its final edge. It took him another three days to finish the second of Lord Loughor's blades with just the hilts left to do. As he wrapped the blades in their protective cloth, he stared down at the charcoal drawing of his newest idea. The calfskin lay wedged under a couple of iron ingots to hold it flat. The smoky drawing of the 27 inch blade, the stylish guard which he thought would be best made of hand-cast brass and the beautiful octagon pommel depicting a dragon head seemed to come to life under the flickering glow of furnace and oil lamps.

Tomorrow he would begin the smelting process to obtain the fine fighting iron he would need, but tonight there were other matters on his mind. Ever since Hanwyn had ridden off into the pine trees, Richard's mind had been churning over the implications of the hawker's words.

Not least of these implications had been the one suggesting he ask his mother about the old ways. What did his mother know about the old ways? _Why_ would she know about them? If, as Hanwyn had suggested, the old tongue and ways had been banned over a hundred years ago, what on earth could his mother know about them?

Hanging up his apron, he left the smithy and washed himself down by the front door, the cold water doing much to cool his hot skin but little to calm his churning mind. Wiping himself dry, he picked up his shirt and pushed open the door. Somewhat to his surprise, there was no food on the table, instead his mother sat on one of the chairs, hands in her lap, watching him consideringly as he stood, disconcerted, in the doorway.

Martha nodded to the chair across from her, her red hair up in a bun, her features kind but determined. It was not often he had witnessed his mother this way …. maybe when it had become obvious, despite his hope, that his father was not going to return. Perhaps, again, the time he and Merek had returned from the tavern down at the ferry crossing with a few ales too many under their skins …. and not many more that he could think of right off the top of his head.

Somehow, despite his twenty-six summers, despite his large frame and bare, well-muscled chest … or perhaps because of that, she made him feel like the twelve-year-old version of himself that had refused to believe his father was not going to return. Obediently, his dirty shirt still rolled up in his hand, he sat where his mother had indicated.

"Something is bothering you Richard, I don't know what it is, but you keep staring at me whenever you think I'm not looking. I don't know what is bothering you, but its best to get out into the open, whatever it is."

He did his best to hide his shock. He'd thought his staring had been unobserved … though more than staring it had been some sort of hope that intuition would strike and reveal the mystery to him.

Looking slightly abashed he rolled the shirt between his hands before raising his head to look at his mother. "It was something Hanwyn said just before he left …" and noted the puzzled look on her face, "… he said I should ask you about the old ways."

Her puzzled look became one of surprise, though he could have sworn that just fleetingly, he had seen a look of alarm cross her face before she got it under control. Intrigue was now beginning to push his doubts aside.

Martha looked down at her hands, the thumb of her left rubbing lightly on the back of her right wrist. She glanced up at her son, read his face like only a mother could and sighed. "What did that fool tell you?"

It was not what he'd been expecting and it took him a moment to catch up with her question. "He warned me to be careful on my next trip to Ylont. Said I should be careful about forming allegiance to any of them, that there were rumours of unrest, of a certain Flede Ierfeweard wanting to bring back the old ways…?" He ended almost on a question as he noted the look on her face. He waited, watching his mother's mind racing at the implications of whatever it was this all meant. He also wondered why Hanwyn had not mentioned any of this to her, from her reactions it was plain to see that it affected her deeply.

Abruptly she stood up, looking around the room and then turning to him said, "Go and get changed while I get food ready …"

"But …" he interrupted, and was interrupted in turn, before he could add anything.

"Later, first we eat, then we'll talk."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 – The Old Ways**

* * *

 ** _Stede be Cnawan_** _\- the Place of Knowledge /_ _ **Offeiriades**_ _– Priestesses /_ _ **Bennaf Offeiriades**_ _-_ _Head Priestess /_ ** _Merch Ieuengaf_** _\- Youngest Daughter /_ _ **Hleow be Cnawan**_ _– Protectors of knowledge /_ ** _Om Kernwek_** _–_ _Unarmed combat_

* * *

They sat at the table, the remnants of their meal pushed aside, a small basket of wild berries on the polished wood between them.

"Do you know what Flede Ierfeweard means Richard?" The way she pronounced the words were very different to Hanwyn's; the vowels rolling off her tongue in an almost musical lilt.

He nodded, "It means rightful heir, according to Hanwyn."

Martha nodded slowly, her fingers moving to the basket and selecting a blackberry. She held it between her fingers, as if studying it carefully before raising her eyes to his. "He's almost right, 'flede' means rightful or just and 'Ierfeweard' means successor or assignee, but in the feminine gender, so it would be more correct to say it means rightful heiress or rightful successor."

"How … how do you know all this mother?"

Martha sighed, slipped the berry into her mouth and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling the bun loose and carding her hair back into its more usual state. Then she leant her arms on the table and looked at her son kindly.

"Our land is old Richard, perhaps as old as time itself. Our ancestors were wise people, peaceful people, and quite aware that the land we live in, the land we cultivate and build on, the land we pass on to our children is a succulent fruit for others," her hand waving illustratively at the basket between them.

"Unlike other lands, where the search for knowledge was and is often persecuted, our ancestors encouraged and fostered the gathering of knowledge; alchemy, astronomy, the care of livestock, the study of medicine and the understanding of plants that can cure so many ailments or cause excruciating pain and death, or the study of the rocks from which we obtain our building materials, our tools …. and our weapons. Emissaries were sent out to other lands to gather further knowledge, to bring back the ingredients and the information which in turn would improve our own understanding."

The hound stirred at their feet, head lifting upwards, ears tilting towards the mountainside behind the house. Richard watched him, waiting for the guttural grow that would warn of approaching strangers or the relaxation as the sound was identified and deemed of little interest. It was the latter; the wolfhound yawned, noisily licked his chops and with a heartfelt sigh, dropped his head back onto his paws. Richard returned his eyes to his mother's face as she too settled back.

"They established the Stede be Cnawan, what today might be called the Place of Knowledge, a place where all people could enter to share and partake of the knowledge gathered within its walls. The Stede be Cnawan was run by Offeiriades, I suppose today you'd call them …. Priestesses …. it's as close as I can come to it, and they in turn would advised the Council of Elders.

"Over the centuries, many tribes have settled here, some fleeing persecution, some wanting to take the land for themselves. Some of these tribes flourished, some perished, some became powerful and spread beyond our boundaries to conquer other lands, and some became weak …. and in turn were conquered." Martha paused to take a sip of water and Richard rested his chin on his hand, intrigued not only by the story, but also to hear his mother talk this way. It was as if she had taken on another personality. A sudden thought crossed his mind … was that where his father's book on the ancient art of sword making had come from? Her voice drew his attention back to his mother across the table.

"Some of these tribes came across the seas from the east, some crossed the icy lands to the north, others found a way through the moving sands of the south and yet others crossed the vast mountains to the west."

"We, the people of this land welcomed each and every tribe, for diversity brings knowledge and makes for strength, and knowledge and strength make for survival. Each new tribe was admitted to our lands under the Code of Merch Ieuengaf." Martha saw the look of bewilderment on her son's face and allowed a gentle smile to show briefly.

"Merch Ieuengaf means youngest daughter. The Code allowed each of the tribes to settle in our lands under the condition that fifty families, randomly selected would hand over their youngest daughters to the Bennaf Offeiriades or Head Priestess. The daughters would be trained in the ways of the Stede be Cnawan and would serve for a period of ten years, after which they would be free to return to their families or continue as Offeiriades."

"What was the point? Surely fifty girls hardly mattered in the greater scheme of things, and what if those that, as you say, wanted to take the land for themselves just refused? You talk of Priestesses, you've mentioned weapons … but what about an army, warriors?"

Martha gave a gentle laugh, and reached out to pat his hand, "So like your father," she sighed and then continued. "Fifty girls hardly matter in the greater scheme of things? Oh, Richard dear, how little you understand human nature. Those fifty girls whose ages ranged from young to early adulthood offered the Bennaf Offeiriades a double-edged sword in the worst case and a key to integration in the best."

"In the first case scenario, they unwittingly supplied the Offeiriades with information that would else take years to discover by other means. Both with the initial interviews and then by subtle questioning once they entered the Stede be Cnawan, information on their people's history, their customs and habits, the nature of their arrival in our lands, the weaknesses and strengths of their leaders, the identity of people of influence, the jealousies and aspirations of those within the inner circles; innumerable items of information and opinions which then allowed the Council to make wise decisions and to better understand the newcomers to our land."

"In the second case, when these women returned to their people after serving their time as Offeiriades, they acted as integrating forces, they brought fresh ways and knowledge to their own people; knowledge of medicine and husbandry, engineering and science, alchemy and astronomy … it gave new prestige to their poorer families and greater influence to those whose families stood close to the centre of power … and of course, a flow of information back to the Stede be Cnawan."

"Therefor, our ancestors had no need for an army as such, for the knowledge gathered within the walls of the Stede be Cnawan was sufficient to make those who wished to conquer our lands desist. Mysterious and powerful happenings would strike doubt and fear into those less determined, infirmities and disease into those of sturdier character. Their armies would become weak and fearful, their leaders vacillating and frail. It is difficult to conquer a land under such conditions."

"Why didn't they just destroy the Stede be Cnawan? Surely that would be an obvious move?"

"They would not only have to destroy the Stede be Cnawan, they would also have to kill all the Offeiriades. The Stede held the tomes and seeds and samples, the equipment and tools which allowed further study and progression, but a vast amount of that knowledge was also in the minds of the Offeiriades. Even had they succeeded in destroying the Stede, they would have perished over the following months unless they also killed all the Offeiriades."

"And that wasn't a possibility?" asked a puzzled Richard.

"In the end, yes, it became a possibility through treachery, though for many centuries the system endured. The Stede be Cnawan was built on the island of Dunuhst Cay within the Western marshes. The marshes are not only treacherous by themselves; the waterways changing from one moment to the next and what one day is solid ground the next can become a boggy pit. A whole army could be swallowed up and lost within the marshes long before they could reach the shore of Lake Dunuhst and try to find the Stede within its misty confines. But as I said, the marshes were not only treacherous of their own accord; the Stede be Cnawan could flood or drain certain parts of the marsh at will, so that even solid ground from the early morning could become swampy marshland by midday. And even if an army made it as far as the shores of Dunuhst, they would still need to cross the water and face the Hleow."

"The Ghleou?" repeated Richard.

"The Hleow, the Protectors. Of the Merch Ieuengaf or Youngest Daughters, not all became Priestesses. Some …. those with a certain type of courage and skill, became Hleow. It was their mission to guide the visitors safely through the swamps and protect them from the creatures that lurked within them … it was also their mission to protect the Stede be Cnawan and the Offeiriades both within its walls and without. They were highly skilled in archery, swordplay and Om Kernwek, a type of fighting which was always a bit of a mystery to me."

Richard bit his tongue. The story his mother was weaving was both enthralling and exciting, but it raised more questions than ever and her last comment increased his impatience. However, he realised he was best to wait until she had finished before trying to delve into her source of knowledge.

As if reading her son's mind, Martha smiled and then continued. "When the current King's great grandfather came to these lands, he, like all before, eventually submitted to the Code of Merch Ieuengaf. Fifty daughters from a wide cross-section of his people were selected …"

"Who made the selection?" interrupted Richard.

"The tribe itself would make an initial selection of some two hundred girls, then a number of Offeiriades would interview the families and the girls over a period of several weeks and a final selection of fifty … those most apt for training … would be made."

"So what happened that was different this time?"

Martha shrugged almost imperceptibly, "Kamull's people came from across the eastern sea. Within his people were a contingent of others; they were similar in many ways to Kamull's own people, but somehow different, they were referred to as Ronin. When Kamull's people made the first selection, over two thirds of the girls were from these Ronin families. They also happened to be extremely apt for consideration; they were intelligent, attentive, disciplined …. so when the Offeiriades made their final selection, forty-three of the fifty girls were from this group."

Richard could see that his mother was looking a little tired, so he pushed himself to his feet and said, "I'll go see to the horses and check the workshop. You take a break and we'll carry on when I get back. Martha gave him an appreciative nod and began to gather the remains of dinner as her son stepped out the front door, the wolfhound close on his heels.

Richard stopped just outside the door and stretched. He glanced around and noticed the slight increase in wind. The leaves on the trees were rustling quietly and it set up cadence which sounded like hushed whispering sweeping down off the mountainside. The river showed erratic ripples whenever a gust of air swept across it and the reeds bowed their heads in consonance. The sun was almost lost behind the hills off to the west, a last glow colouring the sky and adding red to the bellies of the distant clouds. Jaspar stretched beside him, front paws extended forward, head down and back curving up to his raised hindquarters, a sort of groan accompanied the stretch and Richard had to grin at the dog's antics.

He headed round the back and found the three horses; his mother's roan mare, his own bay gelding and the young mare he used as a packhorse with their heads over the paddock railing. All three nuzzled his hands as he rubbed their faces and patted them quietly. Slipping the rope off the first post he loosely looped it around their necks and led them round to the stables. They didn't really need the rope; they knew the way to the stable and his mount tended to follow him round more like a dog than a horse. But horses were skittish at the best of times, a blown leaf dropping past their head, the sound of a slamming door, the colour of a stone they'd walked past a hundred times before … anything could suddenly set them off and the last thing he needed was to have to hunt all over the mountainside in the dark for them. Eventually they'd find their own way back, but a hungry wolf or a prowling bear could easily kill or maim them.

He pulled open the weatherworn door and led them in onto the straw-strewn floor. Removing the rope he hung it over a rafter and then added a handful of oats to the food troughs where the animals were already happily crunching the hay. He ran his hands over them, checking for bites or heat and swelling which might indicate a sprained fetlock or some other damage. Satisfied he went over to the straw bales to check for any eggs the hens might have lain … a couple of them had the tendency to prefer the bales to their boxes. There were no eggs, but there _was_ a piece of rolled up sacking on top of one of the bales. Curiously he picked it up, felt the slight weight in his hand and unfurled the sacking. Even in the dull light of the stables he recognised it for what it was. Carefully he refolded the sacking and turned to throw a last look around the stable. The horses were settled in and Cysurus, his mother's mare was already half asleep, watching him from calm, half-closed eyes.

He closed the door behind him and stepped into the smithy, checking to make sure the fire of the furnace was out and no embers left to spark a fire on a windy night. The sky had taken on a purple tone, the sun completely gone and a faint, translucent moon showed above the fields across the river. There was too little light to make out his charcoal drawing on the pale, calfskin hide, but he couldn't help running his hand over it tentatively, afraid of smudging the lines.

Stepping back out into the open he looked upwards, a few clouds scrolling across the sky, their pale shapes barely visible against the dark canopy. The wind would pick up little later on he thought, but it would be no more than a little blustery, funnelled down the valley and twirled across the mountainside below which the smithy sat. He dropped the bar across the stable door just in case it should blow open during the night.

He paused by the front door to the house, looking around and then giving a shrill whistle when he couldn't see the dog. It was several moment before he heard the loping stride of the wolfhound and then he was almost skidding to a halt at his feet, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and sides heaving at the expended effort.

Richard looked down at him affectionately and shook his head "What? No rabbit for dinner?" The dog tilted its head as if trying to decipher the words and his master pulled gently on an ear, "Come on you big fool, let's get inside".

Entering the room he saw his mother was seated over by the fireplace though the hearth was bare of logs and would remain so another month or so. The cold winds would begin to seep down the valley from the distant frozen territories of the north then, and they would be grateful for the heat the fire would throw out. Indicating he was just going to his room, Richard picked up one of the lamps from the table and ducking below the beams, headed for his room. Once there he opened his left hand and set the piece of sacking on the bed. Unfurling it again he stared down at the object glittering in the lamplight. When he'd found it in the stable his first thought was that Hanwyn had dropped it and left it behind by mistake, but the more he considered it the more convinced he was that the hawker had left it for him on purpose. The barrette was an intricate piece of work: he'd seen nothing like it before, even in the Capital. There was something else about it his restless mind was worrying at, but he couldn't quite pin it down. No doubt it would come to him when he was good and ready. Folding the sacking around it again, he lifted the floorboard by the end of his bed and placed it in the metal box he had made for the space, on top of his father's book.

Returning to the main room, he sat down opposite his mother, stretched out his long legs and settled back against the back of the chair. He threw his mind back to the story his mother was telling him and said, "So, forty-three of the fifty girls were Ronin?"

His mother nodded, rubbed a hand on the arm of the chair as she gathered her thoughts and then continued. "The selected girls and young women were taken by carts across the Feinian plains as far as Gyrfford where they crossed the River Syl and continued to the Monastery of Elanus. There they rested up for three days and the girls were given their novice garments. They would be leaving their previous lives behind and it was as much a symbolic as practical measure …"

"What do you mean?"

"It was common to have Merch Ieuengaf from different walks of life, from princesses to serfs, from the well-to-do to the poorest of the poor. The novice garments made them all, at least in outward appearance, the same. It also had more practical use; fleas and disease which might be harbouring within their old clothes would be left behind and any trinkets or personal property they may have secreted away within their clothes would be discovered. Although each group of Merch Ieuengaf were always warned about only being able to take a few personal belongings, some always tried to smuggle something extra in."

"Such as?" he asked.

"The tribes who arrived in our lands came with their own customs; religious, culinary, cultural …. when interviewed and eventually selected, they were told that they were welcome to take any items, after all, the aim of the Stede be Cnawan was to gather knowledge …. however, in order to equalise the differences between the rich and powerful and the poor and needy, these items were to be limited to just three."

"And on this occasion?"

"And on this occasion … as always …. a few pieces of jewellery, some keepsakes, a love letter or two. Everything was placed in safe keeping and the girls told they might recover them when their time at the Stede was finished … if they chose to leave. The Ronin all seemed to carry similar keepsakes; hairpins, or silk scarves, or little bamboo cylinders which they called yatates and which contained ink and small calligraphy brushes, others had little bags of what they called _goshiki-mai … it was just a handful of_ rice painted red, blue, yellow, black, or purple; none of the Ronin carried more than the stipulated three items which once again made them such a good choice for the discipline of the Stede. After that, they continued the journey through the foothills of Endecore, over the Klyrd Pass and down towards the Western Marshes."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 – Betrayal**

* * *

 ** _Stede be Cnawan_** _\- the Place of Knowledge /_ _ **Offeiriades**_ _– Priestesses /_ _ **Bennaf Offeiriades**_ _-_ _Head Priestess /_ ** _Merch Ieuengaf_** _\- Youngest Daughter /_ _ **Hleow be Cnawan**_ _– Protectors of knowledge_

* * *

His mother paused, looking pensively into the distance and he waited impatiently for her to continue. "The carts had to be left behind when they reached the edges of the marsh and the rest of the trip was done on foot, through the swamps, following the trials only the Hleow who were escorting them knew. There were boats waiting for them on the shore of Lake Dunuhst and evening was setting in as the young women set foot within the halls of Stede be Cnawan for the first time. They were given supper, shown to their rooms and told that the following morning they would assemble in the Great Hall for the initiation ceremony."

Martha wiped her hands over her eyes and only then did Richard notice the pooling tears. He was not sure what to do. Even when his father had failed to return from his trip to the capital, his mother had remained steadfastly calm, not a tear shed before him. He had no doubt she allowed them free rein in the privacy of her own quarters, but in front of him she had remained calm and collected, never allowing the pain or sorrow to show beyond the sadness in her eyes.

Where her knowledge of these things sprung from, why the barely held back emotions should be so strong was a puzzle. His mother was talking of an incident that occurred well over a hundred years earlier, closer to one hundred and twenty years ago …

"During the night, the Ronin rose from their beds and what had been taken for simple keepsakes and items of clothing, turned out to be lethal weapons. They moved like shadows, eliminating the few Hleow that guarded the hallways and began to slaughter most of the Offeiriades in their beds. It was only by chance that a Hleow, looking after a group of younger Offeiriades who were on the roof studying the stars, realised what was happening."

"She gathered a couple of other Hleow, sent one of them to raise the alarm and another to accompany the young Offeiriades to the boathouse on the northern tip of the island. This Hleow then managed to reach the Bennaf Offeiriades' quarters undetected and they made their way out of the Sede. However, as they reached the gardens, the High Priestess was wounded by a dart. With the alarm raised, several Hleow managed to get some of the Offeiriades away and down to one of the boat sheds to the south. They took to the boats and rowed for the southern shore from where the newcomers had arrived earlier that evening. When they were approaching the shore on the marsh side, arrows began to rain down upon them, killing most before they could do anything to defend themselves. The few who made it ashore were confronted by soldiers in dark clothing who put them to the sword." His mother paused a moment before continuing. "The Hleow who had first noticed the Ronin attack managed to reach the northern end of the island with the wounded Bennaf Offeiriades, and with the others awaiting them there, rowed away into the darkness. As they reached the northern shore of the lake, they saw the first flames licking through the roof of the Great Hall. By the time they began to make their way into the swamps to the north of Lake Dunuhst, the Stede be Cnawan was a raging mass of fire."

"At dawn the next day, Kamull took over the city as if he knew there would be no reprisals. He called the Council together and slaughtered each and every elder as they entered. He sent more troops to the Western Marshes to join those already there as they hunted for any trace of the handful of Offeiriades who had escaped. They found no such trace, and within the month he had proclaimed himself king. Soon after, everything to do with our ancestors was banned; our mother tongue, our customs … and of course, the Code of Merch Ieuengaf."

"Why did you say it was done through treachery? It sounds to me like an extremely clever plan, however tragic the outcome."

"Because only someone who knew the intricacies of the Stede be Cnawan could know how to infiltrate it in such a lethal way. All Offeiriades took on oath to keep secret the ways of the Stede. The fact that when Kamull arrived, he came with a handful of extremely well-trained and lethal women of suitable age, the fact that their weapons; hairpins and scarves, poison darts disguised as calligraphy brushes and small star-like objects which the Offeiriades had been told were lucky charms appeared sufficiently innocuous to be admitted …. the fact that troops were somehow able to find their way through the marshes and lie in wait for the escaping Offeiriades … no, Kamull arrived knowing exactly how to infiltrate and destroy the Stede be Cnawan and those within its walls … and he could only know that if someone had betrayed them. That night, nearly three hundred souls perished within the Stede or in the waters of the lake."

Richard nodded in acceptance and rested his head against the back of the chair. Considering what he had heard over the last couple of hours, there had to be more to this than just the bare facts related by his mother. Paramount in his mind was how she could know such details …. and why they should so obviously affect her.

"I asked you before Mother, how can you know these things?"

Martha sighed, leaning back against the chair and allowing her tensed shoulders to relax slowly, her hands crossing on her lap as she assented towards her son. "Of those that attempted to escape from Stede be Cnawan that night, only seven made it; the Bennaf Offeiriades, the Hleow; a young woman who went by the name of Sylvahnia and the five Offeiriades who had been studying the stars on the roof. One of these Offeiriades was called Anthea ….. she was your great grandmother."

Richard leant forward, intrigued even further now that he knew of the family connection to this story. "The Bennaf Offeiriades," continued his mother, "had been hit by a poisoned dart. The further the group advanced into the swamps to the north, the worse she became. Eventually they reached a small clearing where they could rest for a little and Sylvahnia and an Offeiriades who had some knowledge of medicine were able to inspect the wound. They realised there was nothing they could do, perhaps back at the Stede, with their vast collection of herbs and plants and seeds, they might have been able to arrest the poison, but already the area around the wound was turning black and the Bennaf Offeiriades was having great difficulty in breathing. She asked them to gather around and then and there appointed the eldest of the Offeiriades, who went by the name of Tola, as the new Bennaf Offeiriades and instructed them to go into hiding until any search for them was called off."

"When they deemed it safe, they were to carefully make their way to a place called Thodis in the foothills of the western mountains. From there they would be guided to a Monastery high in the mountains where they would carefully re-establish the Stede be Cnawan and recover and rebuild as much of their knowledge as was possible. They would recruit new Offeiriades from a list of carefully selected families and when ready, would destroy the house of Kamull and re-establish the ways of our land …. she must have already understood what Kamull was intending …. and as a last act, she handed Tola a small pendant from around her neck and the seal of Bennaf Offeiriades from her finger."

Martha paused and he could see she was exhausted, both emotionally and physically. How much had the burden of this knowledge weighed her down over the years? Had his father know all this? Quietly he leant forward and suggested she get some rest; they would continue the conversation in the morning. She nodded as they both got to their feet and he embraced her, feeling her breath shudder within her chest. She turned and he watched her leave to go to her room.

As her door closed, Richard headed into the kitchen for a cup of water, his throat felt dry despite the fact that it had been his mother who had done most of the talking. He looked out the windows as he dipped the cup into the bucket, the trees were moving a little more than earlier, their tips bending slightly when the wind gusted and the moon was higher, casting a cold light across the scene which contrasted sharply with black shadows.

His mind went back to the weeks following his father's disappearance. The month he was expected to be away had passed relatively uneventfully. He, Richard, had completed all but the tempering of his sword; the blade had acquired a satisfactory shape, the double edge straight and true. The fuller or groove that ran most of the length of the blade added strength and resilience whist also lightening the sword and had given it a well-balanced feel. He'd spent time shaping the grip from horn, and casting the cross-guard which would stop the enemy's sword sliding down the blade and cutting into the sword-holder's hand.

He'd used brass also to make the pommel, a simple hexagonal top to the hilt which served to counterbalance the weight of the blade, support the hand, and fasten the tang of the blade securely into the hilt.

As spring gave way to early summer and his father failed to return, Richard's impatience had built to a crescendo and ignoring his mother's plea to have faith and wait a little longer, he had saddled up Rogul, the chestnut horse he had back then and set out along the trial his father should have followed. The few scattered neighbours who's lands lay on the way had already, over the previous weeks, confirmed James Hunter's passage, a salutation here, a pause to let the horses drink or pass the time of day, a distant figure waving to them as they worked the fields. And so he'd not bothered stopping to enquire again, just a wave as he'd ridden by their properties and a determination to find his father or else find out what had happened to him. It took him three days to reach the top of the valley, where the river and the valley floor narrowed to nothing more than a wide gully.

Here, upon the only piece of flat land around, sat Morgan's Inn. It was not just an inn; it was a place of meeting, of exchange of news and information. Tools, equipment and local produce could be purchased, horses swapped or sold, weary travellers rest up for a few days or shelter from the winter storms.

Richard dismounted, led the tired chestnut into the stables and settled him into one of the stalls. He unsaddled him, removed the harness and replaced it with a halter before wiping him down with handfuls of straw. The ostler watched him from the entrance, nodding in approval. When Richard had completed the chore he fished a penny from his purse and handed it over to the ostler, arranging for some oats to be added to the feed and his saddle to be oiled and safely stored. Picking up his saddlebag and rolled blanket, he'd headed for the doorway.

Stepping outside, he'd walked round to the front of the inn and pushed his way through the door. The room was long and narrow; a counter ran the length of one wall, tools and blankets, harnesses and leather goods, smoked hams, salted bacon sides and pots of pickled preserves lined the wall behind. The rest of the room was occupied by long tables and benches, straw scattered across the wooden floor and an empty fireplace large enough to roast an ox sat centred on the opposite wall. At the back of the room, wooden steps led up to the rooms above …. rooms reserved for the richer clients who might object to bedding down in the main room amongst strangers and ruffians.

Richard approached the counter, glancing quickly round and not recognising any of the dozen or so people in the room. The innkeeper moved behind the counter to meet him. "Young Hunter isn't it?" he enquired curiously.

Richard nodded, he had been here a few times with his father when they'd needed provisions or someone had arranged a meeting with him. Rutley Morgan held out his hand and Richard shook it. Then curiosity had won over innate indifference. "What brings you up here lad?"

"My father left for the capital six weeks ago, he should have returned by now. I wanted to know if he passed by here, sir."

Not many people called Rutley Morgan sir; other names, yes, frequently … sir, not so much. By nature he was a brusk man, used to dealing with travellers who either deemed themselves of high importance and complained about the dinginess of his rooms or the riff-raff who spent the night and often tried to leave with more than they brought in, be it something from behind the counter or another guest's valuables. James Hunter had always been a welcome, if infrequent customer, polite, firm, but never obnoxious.

"You hungry, son?"

Richard was about to say he was there for information, not food when his stomach rumbled. Only then did he realise he'd eaten nothing since leaving the Melkree farm in the morning. The inn-keeper grinned, showing a couple gold-capped teeth and nodded to one of the long tables behind. "Go take a seat and I'll bring you out something to eat. Then we'll talk." Giving young Richard no choice in the matter, he'd turned and disappeared through the doorway at the end of the counter.

With a shrug of acceptance, he'd turned and chosen an empty table, aware but pretending to ignore the curious looks from the others. Placing the saddlebag on the floor and his foot firmly atop it … something his father had shown him … he'd set the bedroll on the bench next to him and only then allowed his eyes to wander the room. At the far end of the counter, a group of three stood engrossed in conversation, their clothes looking like cast-off soldiers uniforms; the surcoats stained and dirty, their doublets … at least two of them … ill-fitting, their boots cracked and worn. At the far table a man sat on his own, tall and thin, he looked like a curate fallen on hard times, the hair shaved into a tonsure, black cloak wrapped around thin shoulders and a nervous twitch to the eye which seemed to bother him not at all as he spooned soup with a loud slurp.

The next table held four people; three at one end, the other half-way along. The three looked like traders, the type of people who often called in at the smithy to sell their products or exchange them for his father's swords and implements.

The large, middle-aged man further up the table could have been a farmer, the leather britches and blue short-tunic were typical of farmer's clothes, but they looked just a little too sharp, a little too clean …. perhaps he too was a trader, but of farming equipment.

The table next to his held a family of four, the elderly couple looking tired and strained, though the woman threw him a warm smile when she caught his eyes upon her. The two younger men, whose resemblance to the older gentleman was easily recognisable, were scowling into their plates, their conversation intermittent at best.

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the innkeeper with a plate of steaming stew and a husk of bread. He placed them on the table and pushed them across, "Ale or wine?" he asked. About to ask for a jug of ale, he remembered his father's warning about such places and thought better of it.

"Water will be fine, thank you Mister Morgan"

Whatever the innkeeper's opinion of clients asking for water might be, he kept them to himself, nodding and going behind the counter for a jug of water. When he returned, he pushed the jug across and sat down on the opposite bench. "So, young Hunter, you say your father's return is overdue?"

Richard, a mouthful of stew impeding a verbal response, nodded his head and swallowed before adding, "He was expected back some two weeks ago, I'm afraid something may have happened to him."

Rutley Morgan sighed and nodded slowly, "Well I can tell you he stopped here the night some six weeks back," narrowing his eyes in thought as tracked back in time. "He seemed his usual self, had supper and entered into conversation with a traveller who claimed to come from the Western Mountains. When I retired to bed they were still conversing quietly over by the table at the end. In the morning, the traveller had already departed and your father left just before sunup. He seemed perfectly content. He left and headed up towards the top of the valley, I myself saw him from the back yard."

"And no-one reported having met him or seen him after that?"

The innkeeper shook his head, then nodded behind him, "Most who stay here either talk too much or have little to say. I'll make inquiries though, should I see any of the guests from that night again. Will you be staying the night?"

On getting Richard's nod he added, "That will be three pennies then …" and waited for the young lad to count them out and push them across the table. Nodding, the scooped them up and paused halfway to his feet, "Underneath the stairs is best, it's warm and more difficult to get at." Richard nodded and watched the innkeeper go to attend the three men at the counter who were demanding more ale.

An hour later and most began to settle down for the night, the elderly couple heading upstairs to one of the private rooms, the two young men sullenly pushing aside table and benches to make room for their blankets. Richard gathered his saddlebag and blanket and moved to the back of the room, ignoring the looks from the three would-be-soldiers who looked the worse for wear and unrolling the blanket in the narrow space under the stairs. He made a show of placing the revealed sword … one of his father's making … close to hand and tucked the saddlebag under the blanket as a pillow. Stretching out, he pulled the blanket about him and set his back to the wall, facing out into the room, the sword placed within easy reach and the sharp hunting knife on his belt pushed around until it sat across his stomach.

The others settled down, some choosing the tables themselves as beds, other unrolling blankets and settling down on the straw-strew floor. Lights were dimmed and the hall settled into relative quiet. The high beams of the pitched ceiling melded into the gloom, an occasional stirring or grunting turn and the creaking of wood as the building settled were the only sounds to be heard. Shortly thereafter, the first snores began to be heard while outside, the wind rustled amongst the rocks of the gully and the rushing waters of the river roiled quietly over boulders and gurgled into pools. Despite his best intentions, Richard's eyes drooped closed and he sunk into the deep sleep of healthy youth.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5 – Legacy**

* * *

 ** _AN: Before I forget, thank you so much for the comments, they are much appreciated, especially as this particular bunny seems to have been on the happy pills when he struck! Beware of bunnies with green-glowing eyes and psychedelic fur!_**

* * *

What drew him awake, he was not sure. The rustling of straw on the floor, some break in the regular noises of the room. At first he was disorientated, the wooden planks above his head, the hard surface he was lying on … then the rustling sharpened his wits. Remembering where he was, he licked his lips and, eyes still unaccustomed to the gloom, stared out into the darkness before him. The rustling sounded closer still and his hand instinctively moved to feel for the hilt of the sword … it wasn't there!

A whisper melded with the next rustle, words he couldn't make out but which appeared to come from above ….. as his eyes accustomed themselves to the darkness he could make out the paler shape against the darker background less than a couple of feet away, the shape was cut off just below waist-height by the stairs rising above him. The light oblong of steel moved uncertainly ahead of him even as his hand settled around the knife at his waist. The whispering sounded more like an argument, and he wondered if it was about just stealing the sword or something more sinister.

He eased the knife from its sheath and narrowed his eyes. The pale shape of the blade was backed by the gently moving cloth of a surcoat from below which the ends of a pair of worn and cracked boots protruded. Without hesitation, Richard silently pulled the knife from below the blanket and stabbed downwards at the exposed left foot. There was a sudden yelp of pain from above followed by the mix of half-strangled cursing and the muffled clanging of the sword as it was dropped on the straw-covered floor. He dropped the knife and reached out quickly, felt his hand close around the blade even as another hand brushed wildly at the floor nearby. He pulled to blade to him, aware he could easily cut his fingers on the finely-honed edge and instinctively realising he had the blade near the forte or upper end, released it and ran his hand along till he felt the guard. Even as his fingers settled round the hilt, he felt other fingers grabbing at the blade. He pulled his elbow back sharply, dragging the blade backwards and there was a shrill cry as the blade undoubtedly sliced into the other's fingers. By now the commotion was general, the other occupants of the room waking to the disturbing sounds of pain and muffled cursing.

Footfalls sounded from the landing above and Rutley Morgan's gruff and sleep befuddled voice could be heard calling out angrily to demand to know what was going on. Richard, now pointing the sword outwards, ready to stab at whoever tried to get too close, felt the brush of moving air and then the sound of receding footsteps, though one of them sounded more like someone hobbling. There was the creak of wood even as lamps were turned up and the glow of light filled the room from above. He caught sight of the front door closing rapidly just as Rutley Morgan's footsteps and angry voice began to descent the steps from above.

He let out a pent-up breath he hadn't realised he was holding and pushed himself up into a half-sitting position, sword still pointing outwards into the room. It took a few minutes to discover the three missing soldiers, their disturbed blankets still scattered on the floor by one of the tables. Two small patches of blood marked different spots next to the stairs and a few droplets caught on straw, laid a trail towards the front door.

Rutley Morgan looked admiringly down at the youth who half-sat, half-lay in the gap below the stairs. His face was calm, the hand holding the sword defensively, quite steady. Only the slightly rapid breathing gave him away. Morgan leant down, grabbed one of the abandoned blankets and lobbed it towards the lad, nodding at the blade where a thin line of blood glinted along either edge. "Best clean that off before it dries," he said before turning and heading towards the front door. He lifted a bar and dropped it in place across the door and then turned back to the room whose occupants were talking amongst themselves. "Well, gentlemen, the excitement's over for the night and good riddance to those scumbags I say! Let's just all settle down and try to get some sleep for what's left of the night."

He began to turn down the wicks on the lamps as he made his way back to the stairs. He paused by Richard and looked at the now clean sword blade. Turning his eyes up to Richard's he asked quietly, "You all right lad?"

Richard nodded and after a hesitant moment, Morgan dipped his head. He moved away, turned down the wick on the lamp he was carrying and slowly made his way up the stairs.

Some hushed whispering sounded in the darkness and Richard laid there, sword in hand and eyes open as he stared at the darkened room. Eventually the whispering died down and stopped all together, but it was some time before the first of the snores told him the others had gone back to sleep.

He awoke, much to his surprise, to the smell of cooking and rattle of pots and pans from the kitchen in the back. The tables and benches were being pushed back into place, sleeping blankets rolled up and a young girl was sweeping the straw from the floor. As he got to his feet, there were a number of nods and smiles from those present.

He placed the sword on the blanket and rolled it up, picking up the saddlebag and carrying them over to one of the tables. There were a couple of fresh faces; early arrivals to or from the valley, the rest were his companions from the night before, all but the three soldiers or would-be soldiers. He noted their blankets stacked on the end of a bench near the door. If they didn't return for them … an unlikely scenario, then no doubt Rutley Morgan would make a small profit from them.

The inn-keeper appeared at his side, a plate of eggs and some slices of bread accompanied by a jug of water being pushed before him and a hefty slap on the back the only communication. Others were already mopping up the orange egg-yolks with the bread, the ale washing it all down.

By the time he'd finished, half the overnight guests had left and he was ready to follow suit. Breakfast cost another penny and with a wave to the remaining guests, Richard stepped out into the early morning light. It was cool this high up, though not cold. He entered the stables, gathered the saddle from the bar the ostler had placed it on and saddled up, the chestnut pleased to see him. He led the horse out, strapped on the saddlebag and blanket-wrapped sword and climbed up into the saddle.

He paused a moment, glancing down the valley to the far reaches still in early morning darkness where his mother would no doubt now be rising and seeing to the animals. He'd spoken to Heller Cooper and Gunnald Korisson, their closest neighbours …. That is if closeness could be measured in miles. They both promised to check in every now and again to make sure Martha Hunter was fine and he was appreciative of that.

Turning the horse, he headed up towards the top of the gorge, the path which meandered along beside the riverbed was fairly narrow, just wide enough for a laden cart to use. The track rose and fell, sometimes with a sheer drop into the swirling waters several feet below, at others, running level, the spray from the rushing stream making the path muddy and slippery. The firsts rumbles of the waterfall which marked the end of the valley made the chestnut twitch its ears, but Richard calmed him with by stroking his neck and then continued upwards the sound slowly getting louder the closer he got.

About an hour later he reached the plateau where the Four Pilar Falls poured over the edge of Edrych Peak and broke at the base of the cliff where a large pool of seething water lapped the rocky basin before finding the gap which would send it rolling and swirling into the valley below.

He allowed Rogul to drink his fill and then turned, riding up the shallow incline to the ridge above, where he stopped and looked over the scene stretched out before him. From his current position, the mountainside fell away in gentle slopes all the way down to the Feinian Plains below. The Plains stretched in every direction almost as far as the eye could see; south to the distant hills which formed the barrier to the moving sands and were just a faint purple blur in the distance. Northwards, the capital Ylont was nothing but a darker spot on the horizon and the Plains would stretch almost as far again before the icy streams gave way to the frozen plains.

Across from where he sat atop his horse, some three hundred miles as the crow flies, lay the foothills of Endecore …. too far away for him to make out. Glancing back down at the mountainside below, he took in the pine trees which marched downwards in serried ranks before blending into the oaks, larches and birches of the lower slopes.

The Afon Aran or Silver River, glinted in the early morning sunlight as it cut its way across the Plains. Further north, beyond where he could see, the river would branch out into the Syl. With a last look around, young Richard Hunter tapped the chestnut with his heel and they began the descent, following the path which wound its way down the mountainside and in amongst the trees which cast a gloomy coolness over them.

The sound of a loose shutter brought him out of his reverie. He realised he was still holding a half-empty cup of water and set it down next to the bucket. The hound was curled up at his feet, nose tucked in under his tail and Richard wondered just how long he had been standing remembering those far-off days. He sighed, partly in tiredness, partly in resignation … he had searched for a further two weeks and found nothing beyond Ruck's Ford, where his father had stopped for a meal before crossing on the ferry and disappearing into thin air.

The shutter banged a second time and the dog stirred at his feet. The wind was gusting a little stronger, the trees bending more than they had earlier in the evening. He stepped over to the front door, the wolfhound getting to its feet and following him as he made his way outside. He found the errant shutter on the smoking house and wedged it closed again. With a last look around, he headed back indoors and settled down for the night.

They breakfasted quietly, the mood from the previous evening still laying a quiet blanket over the house. They dealt with the animals and the day to day chores before sitting down on the log bench by the front of the house.

"You said that the Bennaf Offeiriades handed Tola a pendant and the seal of office and told them to go into hiding. Then they were to make their way to …. to ….. Thodis was it?"

Martha nodded. "Thodis is a small town in the foothills on the southern end of the Western Mountains. The people there have little regard for anything to do with the capital and the politics that emanate from there. They are quiet and staid, but excellent fighters and expert guides for those who wish to enter the mountains beyond."

Martha sighed and rubbed the hound's head before sitting back and turning her thoughts inwards. "The Bennaf Offeiriades was finding it more and more difficult to breathe. She insisted they leave her and continue their escape, but none would have it so. The sat and quietly prayed to each of their deities but eventually the Bennaf Offeiriades succumbed to the poison. They laid her in the swamp, where its very nature and the animals within would soon leave no trace of her for those that might be searching. After that, Sylvahnia led Tola, Kialya, Asgerd, Nani and your great grandmother Anthea out of the swamps."

"Tola, Kiala and of course Sylvahnia were experienced; they had been with the Offeiriades for many years, however, Asgerd, Nani and my grandmother were young and had been in the Stede be Cnawan for little less than two years. It was an extremely difficult time as they moved from one village to another, from one Monastery to the next, always fearing betrayal, always expecting discovery."

"But as Kamull tightened his grip on his new kingdom, banned more and more of our customs and made an example of those who did not obey, the people found a simple pride in helping them. As news reached them of search parties or soldiers in the vicinity, the people in the villages would hide them or would assign them a guide who would lead them to the next village and then the next and so on. As news of Kamull's actions filtered through to distant parts of the land, some families sent their daughters to join the small group, so that within a few months, their numbers had doubled."

"Eventually they reached Thodis, where they rested and built up their strength after the months of hiding. They were given clothes suitable for the climb high into the mountains above and one day in early winter set off with a number of guides from the town. They were taken my little-known paths and routes, over mountain passes, down shallow valleys and up steep slopes and even steeper cliffs, always climbing higher and higher so that the cold bit into their bones and the air became difficult to breathe. Eventually they reached Mynachlog y Cymlauof … it means Monastery of the Clouds …." her voice dying out as she considered the name.

Martha cleared her throat and continued. "Mynachlog y Cymlauof had been abandoned long before …. there were stories of terrible happenings, but most likely the Derwyddon …"

"Derwyddon?" interrupted Richard.

Martha shrugged, waved her hand as if trying to fish a word out of the air. "Druids, mages, soothsayers … it is claimed that long ago our people sprung from the Celtiaid …. the Derwyddon were their leaders and advisors."

"All the Offeiriades made it to the Mina…," he shook his head in frustration and opted for the more prosaic, "… Monastery of the Clouds?"

Martha nodded. "Yes they reached the Mynachlog y Cymlauof safely and set out to establish themselves there. Word was carefully sent to a number of important families and these began to gather copies of the tomes and information once stored in the Stede be Cnawan. Not all the information could be recovered, vast amounts of it had been destroyed in the attack, but enough was found and covertly sent to allow the Mynachlog y Cymlauof to begin to form a new nucleus of knowledge. Some of these families also sent a daughter so that year by year the new Stede be Cnawan began to grow."

"Anthea, your great grandmother returned to the family at the end of the ten years. By then she was twenty-two and it was several years later when my mother … your grandmother Talia, was born. She too was sent to Mynachlog y Cymlauof where she spent ten years and became adept in medicine. Your Aunt Sarah was born two years before me and, like my mother and my grandmother before, I too was sent to the new Stede be Cnawan in the Western Mountains. When my ten years were up, I left with great sadness and much joy …. sadness at the friends left behind and the life of learning that offered me so much, and joy at the prospect of joining my family once again … and of leaving the bitter cold of Mynachlog y Cymlauof behind."

Richard nodded in understanding, now he knew why his mother was wont to light the fire when the first cold winds wended their way down the valley. He also wondered about the woman who held such knowledge and the simple … though he would never use that term disparagingly … swordsmith she had married. He began to think that maybe there was more to that than he had ever imagined.

He sat back, running his mind over all his mother had told him. Most of it was shockingly new, unsuspected, but even now, small things that had never made much sense to him began to fall into place.

How much of what Hanwyn Gent regaled her with in those long conversations they had, _was_ in fact related to the gossip and scandal she so appeared to enjoy whenever he entered the room. What better way to keep open lines of communications than with a hawker who was such a common and unremarkable sight wherever one went?

Those trips his father had made every year in the spring, reputedly to visit the ore traders from whom he would later purchase the iron he used for his swords. Why would it take him over a month to visit those traders when in the end it was always Thrundul or one of his men who brought the ingots. To his knowledge it would take no more than a week to visit the mines and return.

Then there were the books, the shelves in his mother's bedroom and the cabinets in the main room with leather-bound tomes over which she would pour on winter's evenings. The Coopers and the Korissons had no books that he could tell. It had never struck him as odd before, or at least not consciously so, but now ….

There were many things he had taken for granted and now, thinking back on it, perhaps he shouldn't have done so. Right now might be a good time to start. "How much does Hanwyn actually know?" he asked.

His mother ignored the question, instead asking, "How long is it since you saw your cousin Innogen?"

It threw him off guard, and he had to think back to …. three? Four years ago? …. No, three, definitely three, she had been a snotty-nosed twelve-year-old who had followed him around like a puppy, more like a boy than a girl, always wanting to climb trees and jump streams … he turned to his mother, eyebrow raised, "Three years ago."

Martha nodded, as if confirming it in her own mind. "Your cousin is to join the Stede be Cnawan next month. Under normal circumstances everyone would be told that arrangements had been made for her to visit and stay with a 'friend' in the capital; an opportunity for her to be presented at court …. it's what would be expected of them. Instead she would have been taken by river to Gyrfford where she would join the others heading for the Stede. From there they would be taken by a number of means as far Thodis and then up to the Mynachlog y Cymlauof. But given the current state of affairs, I have a feeling things might not be so safe. With all the rumours going around the capital, it's possible the king could order a tightening of security, surprise inspections and arrests .… I want you to escort her Richard, to keep her safe."

Richard sat with his jaw agape, staring at his mother as if she'd grown horns. Yes, being a bladesmith required some knowledge of swordplay, after all, a good swordsmith needed to understand balance, and speed, and recovery, to know if his blade would be slow to recover, too heavy to counter … yes, he could hold his own in a bar brawl or against an opponent of similar skill, but to protect a girl over hundreds of miles of treacherous countryside, with not only villains but possibly also the king's soldiers looking out for them!

He was about to deny all interest and possibility of it ever occurring when his mother threw in the baited hook. "Wouldn't you like to learn more about the making of swords? The Stede be Cnawan is full of information on the matter."

He fumed for several moments … until the meaning of her words sunk in, then he sat back against the wall, huffing half in exasperation, half in acceptance of defeat.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6 – The Temper**

* * *

 ** _Tang: the metal 'handle' on the end of the blade which becomes enclosed within the hilt_**

* * *

He sat on the upended log and carefully unwrapped the book. It was a long time since he'd actually needed to consult the archaic documents, but each time he set out to smelt his fighting iron, he read aloud the paragraph his father had recited all those years ago … a sort of homage to him. The sky above was pale silver turning mild purple over the mountain above him, the early morning sun only now rising over the distant horizon at his back. The elongated shadows from the building behind him stretched across the ground around him and the cool morning breeze ruffled his hair slightly.

It took most of the morning to smelt the iron, the sun high in the sky by the time he'd obtained a piece of shiny, coagulated fighting iron the size of one of his large fists. He carried it into the smithy, got the furnace going and began to pump the bellows in a slow, regular rhythm until the coals were glowing bright red. He paused a moment, taking a long drink of cool water from the rawhide gourd hanging near the front of the shed.

For the next three days, Richard heated the iron and then hammered it out, folding the iron upon itself time and time again, building up the slightly softer inner core which would give the blade its flexibility and the harder outer layer which would retain the sharp edge and stiffness required to strike, thrust or parry a blow.

As the sun began to sink behind the mountain and with the oil lamps lending a yellow glow to the smithy, Richard held the almost-formed blade up to the light. Thirty-three inches of sword; twenty-seven of them blade, the other six the tang, a width of one and a half inches at the top tapering slightly to one inch near the tip before it curved into the sharp point … right now the blade was a little tip-heavy, but that would be balanced out by the fuller and the pommel. Satisfied he wrapped the blade in a cloth and set it on the rack, out of harm's way.

The following morning he lit the furnace, removed the cloth from the blade and set it on the work bench. Taking a piece of charcoal and a slim baton of wood, he traced a line down the centre ridge of the blade from hilt to about six inches short of the tip. Turning the blade over, he repeated the process on the other side. When his father had fullered a sword, it had been his job to hold the blade steady on the anvil while his father used the fuller to hammer the groove along the blade. On his own, it became a complex and slow business. He'd tried strapping the blade to the anvil but the heat of the iron burnt through the wet rawhide or the blade lost most of its heat before he could make much use of the fuller. Today he was expecting Jarn Korisson over to give him a hand. Jarn was fourteen, big for his age … like his father. He wasn't the brightest light in the harbour but was a willing worker, good at the less complex jobs and if told what to do.

Before he could hammer out the fuller, he needed to establish a flat surface on the blade where the fuller was to be cut. He took a seat on the stool by the workbench, carefully placed the tip of the sword against a piece of softwood wedged at the back of the bench and then folded a piece of leather several times which he propped between his chest and the tang as he leant against it. With his body weight holding the blade in place, he set the draw file on the ridge and began to stroke back and forth in easy, smooth moves. As the file removed the ridge, he was able to observe the progress. Every now and again he stopped to brush the file clean and lubricate it with soapstone. When he was satisfied with the flat surface of the blade, he turned it over and went to work on the other side. When he was finished he stood, letting the leather pad fall to the bench and rubbing his chest where the tang had been resting.

Footsteps sounded outside and he looked up just as Jarn ducked under the low overhang. The northern ancestry was clear in the somewhat wild, shoulder-length flaxen hair, the bright blue eyes and pale skin. He grinned at Richard, hand raised in salutation and threaded his way past the casks and implements to the smithy. Richard slapped him on the shoulder and pretended to stumble as Jarn slapped him back, a big grin on the boy's face. Richard nodded to the spare apron and gloves, checked the coals in the forge and slipped on his own heavy glove.

He took the blade by the tang and inserted it into the coals, foot on the pedal of the bellows. He kept turning the blade every few minutes, carefully watching the colour change from dull red as the iron began to heat up, to cherry red, then to orange. As the metal began to take on a yellow colour, he nodded to Jarn who used the tongs to lift the blade out and carry it over to the anvil. Assuring himself that the lad had a good grip on the blade, Richard picked up the hammer and fuller, set the edge to the now flat centre of the blade and began to hammer away.

Each blow sunk the rounded edge of the fuller a little into the malleable blade. They soon picked up a rhythm, Richard working the fuller along the ridge, carefully judging the correct depth of the groove, and whenever the blade cooled too much, Jarn would return it to the furnace, turning it regularly until the heat was again where it needed to be. It took the best part of an hour for the first side to be completed, a few, slight imperfections would be smoothed out later on with the grinding stones.

Pulling the blade from the coals, Jarn turned it over so the un-grooved side was uppermost, and Richard began the process all over again. Late midmorning, he straightened up for the last time and set the tools down, wiping the sweat off his brow and nodding at Jarn in approval. The lad grinned back with enthusiasm satisfied and Richard suggested they grab something to eat.

The two sat on the log bench outside the front door, Jaspar lying at their feet, half under the bench as he tried to keep out of the sun. A few moments later, Martha brought them out a platter with thick slices of freshly baked bread, almost-as-thick slices of smoked pork, a couple of apples and two jugs of ale. They enjoyed the food, resting tired backs against the wall, the constant sound of hammer on metal slowly dissipating in the relative quiet of the lapping river, the whisper of leaves in the gentle breeze and chirping of birds in the trees around them. Jarn threw the hound a piece of bread and the dog caught it mid-air, wolfing it down and licking his chops in satisfaction even as he stared up at them beseechingly. Richard shook his head at him, mock-seriously adding, "Go catch your own lunch you big gapeseed!" Jaspar tilted his head, staring at his master intently, then let out a half-growl, half-bark before giving his head a shake and dropping it back on his paws, eyes looking up at the two on the bench, hope not lost.

A tree sparrow flew into the sweet briar bush sprouting from the old broken bucket at the corner of the house, the branches wavering as it settled, the pink flowers and red hips bright against the green foliage. Bright brown eyes watched them, head turning this way and that. Richard broke off a crumb of bread and tossed it towards the bush. Jaspar followed the fall of the crumb with his eyes, but remained prone on the ground. The sparrow hesitated only a moment and then flew down, picking up the bread and tossing its head as it tried to break it into smaller pieces. A second sparrow landed nearby and the first flew up into the bush, bread in beak, glanced around then flew away towards the trees by the riverbed.

They finished their meal and Richard thanked Jarn for his help, tossing him a penny for his efforts. Neighbours did not require financial recompense for helping each other out, but the lad had earned it. He carried the empty platter and jugs back indoors and then returned to the smithy.

The blade remained where he had left it, glinting dully on the work bench. He picked it up, ran his fingers along the grooves and felt the slight imperfections which would be polished out, the slight ridges of displaced metal along the outer edges of the grooves. His next job was to use the grinding stones to remove the ridges and smooth out the groove. He carried the blade over to the stones; three of them, each set on a metal bracket affixed to the wall. The coarse stone on the left he would use for removing the ridges along the grooves and for shaping the tang a little more. The other two; a medium and fine stone would be used to grind the final shape of the blade, remove any excess iron and bevel the edged on either side of the fuller.

He put his foot on the pedal of the first stone and it began to slowly turn. When he had the correct speed, he began to run the blade across the stone's surface, careful to not apply too much pressure. It took him another several hours of polishing, of holding up the blade to the light to observe progress and then returning it to the slowly spinning wheel.

Stepping away, the gentle whir of the stone slowing as it lost energy, he ran his fingers along the groove, felt the smoothness which now met his fingertips, let them stray over the bevelled edges feeling for any imperfections his eyes could not see. Satisfied he wrapped the sword up, covered the furnace and stepped out into the open, the wolfhound getting to his feet and following him out. His hands and arms …. probably face and neck as well, were covered in the fine grey-black powder of polished iron.

He stopped by the front door and picked up the bar of soap before turning and walking down to the river. He stripped amongst the reeds and waded into the water, feeling the cold as it bit into calves and thighs, his feet searching for purchase on the slippery stones at the water's edge. Jaspar hesitated on the riverbank a moment, then awkwardly lurched in. Eventually Richard was in deep enough to dive, surfacing several yards away near the middle of the river. He shook the water out of his eyes, swam back till he was waist-high in water and began to soap himself down.

Finally feeling clean, he drew on his britches and headed up to the house, the soaking wet wolfhound padding behind him, fur dripping water. He turned on the step to look back over the river, the pinky-blue sky to the east framed white clouds which seemed to be building up on the horizon …. It looked like they could be in for a change of weather.

The following morning he was met by a red sky as he stepped out into the early dawn, a deep, fiery red sky broken by scattered clouds. He sniffed the air, could almost scent the dampness. Turning back indoors he said, "Mother, I think the day's going to take a turn for the worse, I'll leave the horses in today."

His mother nodded, paused in her chopping of the cabbage and dipped her head to look out the window. "Might be an idea to check on the smoking house, there was a leak in the roof last time."

He nodded in agreement and stepped back outside. Summer storms weren't frequent, but when they did strike, they could be devastating. Heavy rain which could make the river flood its banks, could turn the area around the house into a mud field and worst of all, find every unsuspected nook and cranny in the rooves through which it could leak or pour in bucketful's.

He saw to the animals in the stable, feeding and watering the horses, the hens and gathering up the eggs. His mother would feed the geese and the pigs when she'd finished in the kitchen, but they were quite happy in the rain anyway. He checked the smoking house and found the loose shingle which he reset and nailed down, the smoke from the stack occasionally swirling downwards and making him cough.

With the chores done, he returned to the smithy. Today the blade would go through the most difficult part, the tempering. A blade which appeared perfect could be ruined by inadequate tempering or invisible hairline fractures and cracks which would be exposed by the treatment. He thought back to that first blade he'd made, the one he'd almost completed before his father left on that last trip.

"Keep working on your blade. It's almost finished, leave the tempering till I get back, but you can still improve it a little and work on the hilt." Those had been his father's last words to him before he left on that fateful trip, along with a promise to make sure the hens were fed, the stables cleaned, the horses looked after and his mother obeyed. And true to his word, Richard had carried out the daily chores, helped his mother, and whenever he could get away for a few moments, had run in to the smithy and worked on his sword.

He'd filed and ground and sharpened the sword till little more could be done to it …. Now of course he knew he'd overdone it, probably removed too much of the fighting iron with so much 'polishing'. He'd made a hilt from horn, carefully shaping and filing and cutting till it fitted smoothly over the tang. The guard he'd made from a piece of fighting iron his father had discarded and he'd carefully slotted and pinned everything into place.

Obediently he'd not tried to do the tempering, impatiently awaiting his father's return. When the four weeks became five, then six … he'd been unable to sit still any longer, and knowing his own sword was not finished, he'd taken one of his father's spare weapons and set out to discover what had happened to him. When, three weeks later he returned, his mission unsuccessful, the sword had been the last thing on his mind. Then there'd been Cooper whose adze had been filed and sharpened so many times there was barely any blade left. There had been doubts on both sides as Richard had offered to forge him a new one, it wasn't a sword, but it was a cutting tool. Trepidation had given way to relief as the new adze, expertly wielded by Heller on a piece of trunk out back had proven more than adequate. With encouragement and help from his mother, he'd read through his father's book, his mother coming to the rescue whenever the archaic language proved too much for him.

He practiced smelting fighting iron, for without that, as his father had said, a swordsmith was worth little. He hammered out one blade after another, shaped them, filed them and polished them into fine looking blades. He made the grips, the guards, the pommels … he built six whole swords before he tried the tempering.

Taking down his own blade, the one completed as he awaited his father's return, Richard had dismantled the various parts until he once again held the untampered blade in his hand. With a silent prayer to whichever gods oversaw the swordsmiths, he'd heated the blade till it was a bright red, then removing it from the furnace, he'd gripped it with the tongs and plunged it into the cask of oil. He'd heard a faint snap, even as the blade went in but had failed to consciously register it. When, several minutes later he had pulled the blade out he had at first failed to note the crack half-way along the blade. It had only been as he had wiped the blade with a cloth that he had become aware of it.

Flushed pride took a severe beating as his unbelieving eyes took in not just the one crack half-way up, but a number of smaller, finer cracks all along the cutting edge. Not wanting to believe the disaster he held in his hands, he'd gone out the back to the pell; the wooden post which was planted firmly in the ground and used as a target when practising with the sword. Under normal circumstances, real swords were never employed with the pell, instead, wooden swords were used, their weight, almost double that of a real sword, helping to build upper body and arm strength, thus improving weapon control. Half in fear, half in hope, young Richard had set himself up, taken a dep breath and swung the sword at the side of the pell.

The shattered blade had flown all around, pieces bouncing off the nearby logs and stones, others falling to the ground or half-burying themselves within it. He was left holding about nine inches of useless fighting iron. Now of course he knew he'd done too much 'polishing' had ground way too much of the hard iron, but back then it had seemed a world-shattering disaster.

It had taken his mother many hours of cajoling and encouraging, of stories of his own father's less glorious beginnings, before he had summed up the courage to attempt another tempering … though this time it would be with one of the his father's unfinished blades. The following day, having re-read the chapter on tempering at least a half-dozen times … which had done much for his understanding of the strange words but little for his confidence, and with much hesitation and not a little trepidation, Richard had attempted a second temper.

This time he was sure there was no sound of cracking as the blade went into the oil and pulling it back out a few moments later, he had been vastly relieved to find the blade apparently in perfect order. After that he had set to with more confidence, tempering the other blades he had hammered out himself. Of those six blades, five had been perfect, the sixth had developed a few fine cracks near the tip.

Over the following months, he forged more blades; gaining confidence in the procedure though the tempering remained very much a mystery, where he was unable to clearly understand not only the reasons for failure, but also for success.

That autumn, he did not make the trip to the capital his father was wont to make. He neither had the number of swords nor the confidence in them to risk the month-long journey. Though even if he had, it would have been unlikely that his mother would have countenanced it.

It had been a couple of travellers stopping to have one of their horses shoed, who seeing the rack of blades had asked their price. Richard, remembering his father's teachings had given them the top price, aware that they would expect to negotiate it down. The two had picked up several of the swords, tested them for balance and 'feel' and asking him permission had then stepped outside onto the open ground between the smithy and the river.

The two men had set to, at first cautiously, testing the blades and themselves. Then they had slowly built up into a series of thrusts and cuts and parries which had drawn a running Martha from the kitchen. The two travellers paused, a slight sheen of sweat on both their brows despite the cool temperatures and checked the blades looking for dulled or damage edges, for bent blades or loose grips. Stepping back into the smithy, they claimed the blades were unbalanced, their weight not quite ideal, but they would be interested in acquiring twenty pieces if the price were right.

This part of the business Richard was more used to. He had listened to his father trading for years, heard all the complaints people could possibly make about a blade and his father's answers to those complaints.

In the end the traders had left with their twenty swords, the price had ended up close enough to that his father would have obtained and for the first time, as the traders disappeared amongst the trees, Richard gained a belief in himself, in his ability to smith blades, good blades.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 – The Hilt**

* * *

Richard removed the wrapped blade from the rack and set it down on the bench. The early morning light filtered through the gathering clouds and lent the day a steely tone …. he wondered if it was an omen.

Unfurling the cloth, he picked up the blade and extended his arm, rocking his wrist back and forth, side to side and up and down. Already the difference from the day before was noticeable. Though still a little tip-heavy, the blade felt lighter, more manageable. Yesterday morning the blade must have weighed well over two and a half pounds probably closer to three; today, with the fuller having compacted and reduced much of the blade's centre mass and the 'polishing' having eliminated the surplus, he guessed it was now just under two and a half pounds.

The weight of the pommel at the back of the grip would counterbalance the very slight tip-heaviness of the blade. He lit and stoked the furnace, building up the heat in the coals and checked the level of the oil in the cask. Pausing a moment and taking a deep breath, he laid the blade on the coals and every few minutes, turned and wiggled the blade within the coals making sure the heat was evenly spread. When the glow of the blade reached a bright red, he removed it and gently waved it around to cool it. He had found that doing this a couple of times tended to decrease possible mishaps when tempering. As soon as the blade had completely cooled, he replaced it in the forge and repeated the procedure. Finally he replaced the blade on the coals for a third time, watched carefully as the iron turned from black to dull red, then to bright red and removing the blade for the last time, stepped quickly over towards the oil cask and lowered the blade all the way in. The hissing, smoke and bubbling died down and he carefully lifted the blade from the oil. Holding his breath he wiped it down and held it out, turning it as he looked carefully at the blade. There was no warping and after a close inspection from tang to tip he let out a breath of relief.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and the first splatters of rain hit the roof, making him pause and look up before moving to the entrance and gazing across the river. The clouds over the distant fields were thick and heavy, piling up one above the other, their underbellies dark with rain and escorted by ragged strips of cloud which looked to merge with the landscape below. Tipping his head to look upwards, he noted a few pale blue patches amongst the moving clouds above, but they were quickly disappearing as the oncoming storm clouds pushed their way towards him.

He ducked back inside and lit some more lanterns; no doubt it would soon become dark outside. He hung a couple of the lamps on the overhead beams close to the polishing stones and set to with the finest grained one, running the blade back and forth across the stone to remove all traces of the forge work and add a little more finesse to the bevelled edges.

The storm broke around him, the rain beating hollowly on the shingle roofing while thunder rumbled and roared around him. Every now and again, lightning lit the darkened day and threw the interior of the smithy into stark contrast, lighting up hidden corners and glinting sharply off the blade in his hand. Perhaps, he smiled to himself, the gods of war were pleased with his creation … were they arguing over who should get it?

Rain poured off the roof in sheets and he could almost taste the water in the air. Despite the heat from the furnace, a chill settled in over the place and he paused in the polishing, holding up the blade to the lanterns overhead and checking the surface; it reflected the light back at him smoothly.

He moved from the stones to the bench and settled down as he had when filing down the blade before hammering out the fuller. With the now sharp tip set against a block of soft wood at the back of the bench, he leant against the tang, picked up one of the whetstones and began to work the blade, back and forth, occasionally adding a little oil as he removed any scratches or blemishes the grindstone might have left.

By late evening, with the storm now somewhere to the west and puddles plopping to the occasional drops of rain from overhangs or trees, Richard set aside the now finished blade and stretched. Tomorrow he would work on the guard and pommel, and perhaps, by the end of the week, his sword would be finished. He had nine days left before leaving to escort his cousin to Thodis and it needed to be finished by then.

The following morning showed a clear sky, the world smelling clean and fresh after yesterday's downpour. He lit the furnace and carefully selected a length of iron bar about half an inch thick which he heated till it was white hot. He used a chisel to cut through the bar about six inches from the end and when the bar parted in two, set aside the longer piece for future use. He reheated the small piece of fighting iron, squared off the ends and then began to hammer out the guard.

Over the next couple of days he shaped the guard, punched a slot through the centre, and added the recess for the top of the blade to fit snugly into it. He used files and the stones to give the guard its final shape and then repeated the process with the pommel, using a circular piece of brass. He punched and filed the slot so that the tang would slide almost all the way into the brass circle. He carefully marked the centre of the brass pommel and made a hole through from side to side, then slipped the pommel onto the tang and marked the position of the hole. He removed the pommel and punched a hole through the tang and then made a rivet to hold pommel and tang together. He fit the pieces together, knocked the rivet through and then flattened one of the ends …. The other he left as he would still need to remove the pommel both to fit the grip and make minor adjustments.

Next he took a piece of well-seasoned ash and cut it roughly into a block of approximately the size needed for the grip. He marked the centres at either end and then used small wood chisels and files to gouge a narrow slot most of the way through. The slot was smaller than the tang but once he was satisfied, he carefully heated the tang and when it was hot enough, set the blade on the anvil and began to push the wood block onto the tang. It was a slow process, the hot tang burning through he wood to form a tight fit. However, he had to be extremely careful not to overheat the blade or all the tempering would be ruined. He kept a wet cloth wrapped around the upper part of the blade and continuously cooled the tang down with water as soon as he'd burnt through the wooden block a little further. Finally, the tang burnt through the opposite end of the ash block and he had a snugly fitting grip.

The following day he began to work on the grip itself, filing it down to size and tapering each end slightly until it was a fraction thinner than was suitable for his large hand. With the core finished, he heated some hide glue and used a twig to apply it to the wood. Taking up a reel of hemp cord, he began to carefully wrap it around the wood from hilt to pommel, keeping the thread tight. When the whole grip was wrapped, he tied it off and set it down to dry. It would take many hours … most of the night in fact … to dry, but would add strength to the wooden hilt and supply a better surface for the leather to adhere to.

On the next morning, he found the hilt nicely dried and set it on top of a piece of goat hide. The goat hide was thinner than calf hide and would allow his hands to feel the hemp cord underneath and thus offer a better grip. He carefully measured the hide and cut out the required piece then put it into warm water to soak; this would make it both more supple and easier to work with. Also, when finished and dried out, the hide would shrink tightly around the wooden core. He wrapped the hide around the hilt and keeping the seam along one of the narrow sides, stitched them together. When he'd finished, he slotted the guard, hilt and pommel together and checked the sword over. The balance was good, the weight of the brass pommel being just sufficient to counterbalance the weight of the blade. It now felt a perfect balance, sitting comfortably in his hand. He made a slash at an imaginary target, rapidly swept the blade back as if defending from a counter-strike, swung it over his shoulder and then swept it downwards, stopping the blade short … he was satisfied, the hilt offering his hand a good grip. He set the sword back on the anvil, hammered the other end of the rivet in the pommel tight and stepped, picking up the sword and sitting down as he held it up in satisfaction. Jaspar seemed to sense it and climbing to his feet, padded up to him and set his head on his lap. Richard looked down at him and gently pulled his ears before quietly suggesting they head back to the house for the evening. The dog let out a half-smothered bark which might or might not have been agreement and Richard pushed himself tiredly to his feet.

By comparison the scabbard was quickly made. The following morning he went down to the river bed and looked for a poplar with a suitably straight and thick branch. Finding one, he chopped the branch off, trimmed it and carried it back to the smithy. He cut the branch down to the right length and then began to split it into thin strips. The wood was green, pliable and split into irregular thickness, but once he had a couple of suitable slats, he used a plane to thin them down.

Placing the sword on the first completed slat, he carefully drew round the edge of the sword with a stick of charcoal which left an outline a little thicker than the sword itself and then repeated the process with the second slat. He used a third strip of wood to mark out the tip of the sword for the scabbard's chape and the top of the blade just below the guard for the locket. He set the third slat aside and using the plane, shaved the first two slats all the way down to the outline, checking them against the sword. Happy with the results, he oiled the sword well, sandwiched it between the two slats of wood, glued their edges and clamped them together. The wood, still green and flexible curved round the blade and the glued edges came together. Taking up rawhide strips which had been soaking in water, he wrapped them tightly round the wood in a spiral and then set the whole close enough to the furnace for the rawhide to dry out in a reasonable amount of time. During the afternoon, he shaped the locket and chape for the scabbard from thin brass sheeting which he punched and curved into shape until all that was needed was the final welding.

By evening, the rawhide strips had shrunk tight against the wooden core of the scabbard and he was able to carefully remove the sword, leaving clamps and rawhide to hold the shape and allow the glue to dry overnight.

With only three days left till his departure, Richard was pleased the next morning to have only a little more to do to the sword. His intention of course had been to sell it to the king or some other court member, but given his forthcoming trip, he was taking it along with him. Although he was hoping to avoid any confrontations, he had to admit that he could not ask for a better opportunity to test his design. If, as he firmly believed, the sword turned out to be an excellent weapon, then he would have all the more grounds at his disposal for making and selling similar blades.

He carefully removed the clamps from the scabbard's core, checked that both seams remained tight and then gently cut through the rawhide, though he had expected it to, he was relieved when the wood retained its curved shape. Unwrapping the sword, he slid it into the scabbard and found it a nice fit; tight enough to not move around, loose enough for the blade to be easily withdrawn.

This time he selected a piece of black cowhide as a cover and set to cutting and shaping it around the scabbard's core. Again he heated some of the glue and then applied it to the wooden slats. The glue would not only help to bind the leather to the wood, it would also act in some measure as waterproofing for the latter. Carefully, he folded the leather round the scabbard and then began to stitch it from tip to top. With that done, he slipped the half-formed chape over the tip of the scabbard, checked the fit, removed it and filed the two edged to be welded a little more. When he slipped it back on the next time, it was a perfect fit.

Next he worked on the locket which would fit round the top of the scabbard. Again he had to do a little filing to get the correct, tight fit around the leather, but once happy, he carried them over to the forge. It was a quick if painstaking job to weld the two edges together, the low heating point of the brass requiring just enough heat to weld the seams but not too much or it would distort the piece. With both pieces welded, he turned the scabbard upside down on his stool and gently tapped the chape down over the tip. The brass chape would protect the end of the scabbard if it dragged on the ground or was set against the floor and would help to hold wood and leather together over time. Next he reversed the scabbard and did the same with the locket which would not only hold the top of the scabbard together, but also had a hoop on the back which would allow it to be attached to a belt.

Taking a cloth, he wiped the scabbard clean, removing small particles of sawdust, wood shavings and finger smudges from the brass fittings. Taking up the sword, he slipped it into the scabbard and then pulled it free. He did it several times, first holding the scabbard by his side, then out before him, loose in his hand and finally holding it down on the workbench. Each time the blade slipped free easily and cleanly. Setting the sword on the bench, he looked around the smithy. In the couple of days left, he would have little time to do anything here, so he set to to clean out the forge, shovelling the coals out onto the ground to die and tidying up tools and equipment. Jaspar objected to being made to move as he swept the floor and wondered off outside. Richard finished in the smithy, took another look around and picking up the sword, ducked out under the overhang into the evening tranquillity.

It was a quiet meal that evening, both their minds on the forthcoming trip, neither particularly looking forward to it, though for different reasons. They retired early to bed and Richard spent several hours tossing and turning as he considered what he would need to take and what arrangements needed to be made before he left.

The day of departure dawned with a pale blue sky as the sun rose to the east and scattered clouds moving gently southwards. There was a certain leisureliness to the morning's activities, a reluctance on both their parts to hurry along. With the animals fed and watered, Richard led Santhall out to the front of the smithy and looped the reins over a post. The bay stomped his hooves and shook his head, a shiver of anticipation running over back and rump.

Richard picked up the freshly washed saddle blanket and slung it over the horse, his hands brushing any wrinkles out and calming the horse down. Next he picked up the saddle and slung it over the blanket, jiggling it slightly into position and then reaching down to grab the girth, push it through the buckle it and pull it tight. The journeying saddle was a little different to this normal one, and he grinned as the horse objected to the second girth being pulled tight, sucking in air until its sides inflated. He let the horse get used to it and then tightened it a little more.

He picked up a length of oiled canvas and shook it out on the log bench. He laid a sleeping blanket over it, a travelling cloak over that and then added a pair of britches and doublet. He rolled the whole up tightly, tied it up with a couple of strips of rawhide and then attached it to the back of the saddle. He checked the girths, tightening one a little more before turning back to add the saddlebags which he attached to the back of the saddle. One held his personal items such as a clean shirt, comb and toiletries, a whetstone to keep his blades sharp, a couple of flints for starting fires, snares and so forth. The other held food for himself; smoked ham, bread, nuts and dried fruit as well as oats for the horse. Finally he slung the water skin over the horn …. wine was more advisable than some unsafe water, especially in the cities, but he would have fresh water all the way up to the top of the valley and he would have time to purchase some wine later on.

Stepping back he checked he had everything and then went around the horse pulling on items to make sure everything was properly attached. With a sense of déjà vu, he turned to Martha who stood stroking Jaspar's head by the front door. He had debated with himself about taking the wolfhound with him or not. The dog would make a good guardian, warning him of approaching danger and being a fearsome defender should he be attacked. On the other hand, he would be company for his mother and more importantly, would defend her and the house from intruders. There had really been no choice in the matter, despite Martha's protestations.

He approached them and knelt before the dog, grabbing him by the ruff of the neck and telling him to be a good dog, not to chase wild rabbits in the evening and to make sure he kept a good guard. He was about to add 'and obey my mother', but stopped himself in time, it would have been too reminiscent. The dog seemed to know something was up, trying to lick his face and emitting a sort of pitiful whine.

Getting to his feet he wrapped his mother in his arms, both giving fierce hugs and saying nothing. Eventually Martha pushed him away and asked him to hold out his hand. She dropped a pendant into his palm; it was a simple disk with some rather intricate etchings on a thin chain. He raised his eyes and looked at her inquiringly.

"Should you need help once you are beyond the Syl, show this … be careful to whom you show it … make sure they are local people of long standing; it should offer you protection and assistance …. but take extreme care, It could also be your death."

He nodded and slipped it over his head, settling the chain on his neck and slipping the pendant beneath his shirt. He hugged her once more, aware of tears brimming and indecision just around the corner. He pulled back, kissed his mother's cheeks and then turned and stepped over to the bay.

Martha watched her son climb into the saddle, the tall, young man striking in his brown leather, short sleeved jerkin and lace-up woollen gambeson, his dark britches tucked into the tops of long boots, the sword strapped to his waist on the left and purse and knife on the right. She fought to keep the tears at bay.

Richard leant down, pulled the reins free and turned the horse, pausing a moment as he smiled down at them and then nudged the horse into a walk. He rode past the smithy, glancing into the strange stillness within, past the fruit trees beyond, and then took the fork which led up to the treeline above.

Halfway up, he pulled on the reins and turned to look down at the scene below. The river flowed calmly southwards, the reeds on ether bank waving gently in the breeze. Beyond the river, fields and meadows ran eastwards, a few scattered farmsteads no more than darker blobs amongst the trees surrounding them. The apple orchard below partially hid the strangely silent smithy and beyond that, the sloped roof of the house gave little away about the emotions which must be running strongly within. A faint trail of smoke rose gently from the smokehouse and in the paddock, the two remaining horses stood below the old chestnut, ears pricked in curiosity or something else as they stared up the mountainside in their direction. His mother and Jaspar had disappeared from view, no doubt the memories of his father's departure at the forefront of her mind. With a last look to fix the picture in his mind, Richard turned and kicked the bay into movement, their shadows melding into those of the trees which closed in around them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 – Quest**

* * *

 ** _AN: *The first spectacles appeared in Italy around 1260 (I add this historical note in justification of their appearance here) though I'm still not clear on the precise time/location of this story. BigKahuna's hope that "the wolfhound was a bit more than a dog" might lead me up some weird paths … who knows! What do you say?_**

 ** _Flede Ierfeweard - rightful or just successor_**

* * *

The approaches to Alessus ran between fields of wheat which stood waist high and were almost ready for harvest, their tops rippling in the breeze like golden water on a lake. The dried earth of the mountain tracks gave way to paving stones and the closer he got to the city the more travellers he met; carts with produce going to the city, empty ones returning, riders like himself, travelling alone and others in groups, people afoot, wares being pulled along in handcarts or slung from poles born across their shoulders. As the Great Eastern Gate and the city's walls came into view, farm labourers began to emerge from the fields onto the road, tools and baskets, scythes and pitchers swinging from tired arms, bare feet slapping soundlessly on the paving as they wearily made their way home. Most stepped aside as soon as they heard the horse's hooves behind, others, possibly too tired to care, had him stepping the bay around them.

The walls spread out on either side of the road, rising twenty feet into the air with turrets interspersed every so often. The Great Eastern Gate was taller still, topped by burgundy red awnings from below which archers looked down onto the road below. Guards stood on raised platforms to either side of the massive, arched gateway, their orange and burgundy surcoats over iron mail and their long lances with similarly coloured tassels tied just below the points adding a colourful splash within the shade cast by the afternoon sun.

A young officer stood to one side of the road, the tip of his sword pressed to the ground, his crossed hands resting atop the pommel. Richard almost winced at the carelessness, the tip would invariably become dull, making the sword that little more inefficient. The officer suddenly straightened and raising his sword, pointed it at a cart that had just passed through the gates on its way out of the city. Begrudgingly the driver pulled on the reins and 'woah'd his horse as several of the guards closed in on the cart, one of them approaching the driver. Richard, having had to slow his horse to a walk because of the increasing number of people, was too far away to make out the words. The soldier turned back towards the officer and called out "Timber delivery … sir," the sir sounding almost like an afterthought.

The officer nodded and the soldiers stepped back, waving the carter on as they did so. He clicked his tongue, shook the reins and the tired-looking horse put his weight to the harness, the wheels of the cart beginning to turn once again. He'd been so engrossed in the interplay on the other side of the road, that he was surprised when the shaft of a lance dropped between himself and the labourer ahead of him. He pulled Santhall to a stop and turned to look down at the holder of the lance. Before he'd had a chance to take in anything more than the uniform attached to the end of the lance another figure intruded itself within his field of view. This man was quite a bit older than the young officer across the road. In his mid-forties, he had the look of a veteran; a pale scar ran across his cheekbone, the tanned face and wrinkles around the eyes and across his forehead indicated time spent away from the comforts of a home or barracks.

"Name and business?" The voice was rough, neither polite nor impolite, faked indifference belied by the definite curiosity in his eyes as his glance shifted from Richard's sword to his face and back again.

"Richard Hunter, here to visit my Uncle Wingate," he answered, his hand steadying the bay as his mount sidled a little.

The man's eyes widened slightly in surprise, then narrowed as he stared up at Richard, "Charles Wingate, the doctor?" he asked suspiciously.

"Eaton Raoul Wingate, though he prefers to be called Raoul Wingate, and unless he's changed profession since the last time I saw him, he's an apothecary, not a doctor."

The man stared up at him in silence for several moments, the fidgeting bay making those on their way into the city give him a wide birth. Abruptly the man nodded, taking a step back and signalling the soldier to raise the lance, his eyes already scanning the people behind Richard.

He nudged the bay with his heels, keeping firm hands on the reins and slowly edging his way ahead through the crowded access to the city. Beyond the gateway, the street widened into one of the city's main thoroughfares and the wedge of people spread out, making the going a little easier. Two and three story wooden buildings lined each side of the cobbled street, the upper floors overhanging those below and offering a little shelter in rainy weather and shade in the summer. Hawkers wandered up and down attempting to make the last sales of the day, their calls mingling with the general cacophony of noise; loud calls, ringing bells and trilling flutes of the hawkers, the rattle of cartwheels and clip of hooves on the cobbles, people chattering in doorways or calling out as they spotted someone across the way. On a corner, a bard played an instrument and sang of heroes long gone and a little further on a barker advertised an attraction whilst a mummer drew a small crowd of curious onlookers. Past the next side street, a troubadour threw pretty verse at a group of passing girls who hid their giggling faces behind decorative fans but could not resist turning back to look at the handsome young performer. The noise, the busyness and colour lent pulsing life to the city's street.

Beyond the troubadour a group of soldiers sat at the wooden tables of a tavern, laughter and ribald comments flying over his head as a group of young women leant out the upper windows of a building. From their attire and the comments, there was no doubting the type of business they professed.

Eventually he reached a square with a large fountain in its centre. People strolled along or paused by the splashing water to take a drink or dip their hands refreshingly, others rushed about, dodging around those in less hurry, chores to complete or places to be. Just beyond the square, he turned down a side street barely narrower than the main one. Here the businesses were a little more staid; he passed a furrier's, a jewellers and a pastry cook's, a carpenter's with a cooper's next door, then a hat maker's, a butcher's and a cutler's. Beyond the cutler's he spotted the apothecary's sign hanging above the green door and dismounted, tying the reins to one of the rings bolted to the wall.

He dusted himself down as best he could, for despite his attempts to keep his clothes clean, the five day ride had lain a fine coating of dust over them, then he climbed the steps and pushed through the door into the shop. His Uncle Raoul was attending a customer and didn't spot him entering, which gave him a chance to look unobtrusively look around. The place hadn't changed much since his last visit several years before; shelves lined the back wall from floor to ceiling, white ceramic apothecary jars with blue letters and symbols filling each shelf and spilling out onto the counter. To one side, herbs and plants hung head-down on special racks as they dried out before being crushed into powder or soaked in different liquids to obtain oils, perfumes and infusions. From the back room he could hear the tinkling of glass which sounded like his Aunt Sarah stirring or mixing some concoction. His uncle was a tallish, rotund man with a cheerful face and equally cheerful disposition. He wore a pair of reading glasses propped on his nose and they, along with the short curly grey hair surrounding the bald patch on his head gave him a very erudite look …. just then, as he handed a vial to the customer, he glanced across and spotted his visitor. An even wider smile cracked his face and he spread his arms in welcome "Sarah!" he called out, "The boy's arrived!"

Being called a boy hardly fitted his appearance but he was not going to object, stepping aside to allow the customer to leave. Just then his Aunt Sarah entered from the room behind, and she rushed around the counter to envelope him in a hug, her head barely reaching his shoulders. Uncle Raoul followed her around and joined in the hugging and hearty backslapping, questions about his mother, the journey and his health all tripping over each other.

Eventually he managed to disentangle himself and looked up in time to see a tall and attractive young woman pause in the doorway to the back room. It took him several seconds … and the amused look on her face … to recognise his cousin. The perk-nosed, freckled, scrawny, long-legged creature that had followed him around asking interminable and highly annoying questions was turning in to a stunning young woman. Fifteen, almost sixteen by now as he quickly ran the dates through his mind … she stepped round the counter and somewhat shyly turned her cheek up for a kiss …. he hesitated only a moment and then wrapped his arms around her, lifting her off her feet and dropping a kiss to her forehead. Her squeal of surprise turned to a gurgle of laughter and she slapped her hands on his shoulders demanding to be put down. Eventually he obeyed and set her back on her feet, the initial awkwardness broken and then they all stepped aside as his uncle hung a sign on the door, locked it and ushered them all ahead of him into the back room and up the stairs to the living quarters above.

That evening they sat around the table in the upstairs room, the window onto the street open to make the most of the balmy weather. They'd discussed the forthcoming trip and though both his aunt and uncle had tried to hide their concern, he was aware of the strain they were under. During a quiet conversation with his uncle earlier on, after he'd taken his horse round to the stable at the back and when both women were getting changed for supper, he'd heard about the undercurrent of mistrust and unrest within the city. Summary arrests as people under suspicion were dragged away by soldiers, some returning to their homes days later, some not.

Conversations in taverns and coffee houses quieting whenever the outer door opened and someone entered, a sense of quiet relief if the newcomer was recognised and a new, trivial subject being brought up for discussion if not. But above all, it was the rumours and counter rumours around the subject of the Flede Ierfeweard.

"Does anyone know who it is?" Richard had asked.

His uncle had shaken his head and thrown his hands up in resignation. "Nary a clue Richard, some say it's a man, some a woman, some opt for the spirit of a murdered priestess, some for a descendant of one of the Elders … you know the story?" On getting Richard's nod, he continued, "others claim it's the new Bennaf Offeiriades from the mysterious Stede be Cnawan … which by the way, they claim lays hidden in the moving sands to the south, or in the mountains of the west while others claim it lies belowground, within secretive tunnels and underground chambers set about by traps and where those who enter are soon lost and wonder till they die of thirst or hunger." He gave a chuckle and added, "I have to admit that I may have been responsible for some of the more outlandish suppositions."

"How many people know the reality, I mean about the Stede?"

His uncle had shrugged, "I know of at least four old families who's daughters have left to 'study in the capital' or 'stay with family' in one of the more distant cities … it's not exactly something to be talked about."

"And Innogen?"

His uncle had nodded and allowed a look of resigned sadness to settle on his face. "Ah yes, I've been at pains to praise my daughter's selflessness to all and sundry; my sweet little Innogen, so kind, so thoughtful. There's my poor brother Anton, widowed and alone, almost blind ….," in an aside he'd acidly commented that even if it were true, the bugger'd be too mean to allow anyone to stay in his house at his expense, before continuing, " … and my sweet daughter deciding to travel all the way to Serisis, an in the middle of nowhere place if ever there was one, just to go and look after her dear uncle in his declining years ….. yes, very sad it is," he'd finished with a sigh, the twinkle in his eye inviting approbation of his acting skills.

Richard had shaken his head and began to wonder about his family. There seemed to be hidden depths to all of them. As for Raoul' brother, he remembered hearing vague stories of the rift as a child, but had no intention of delving further into it. Tomorrow they would depart on a journey which would take the best part of a month to complete. Even if they avoided injury, lame horses, bandits or the king's soldiers, it was going to be a long and exhausting trip … and if that was the story his uncle had put about, then they would just go with it. At least the mining town of Serisis was to the west and would fit into their direction of travel for most of the way … but who the hell would want to go there in the first place?!

His thought had been interrupted by his uncle gripping his wrist, "You'll look after her won't you Richard?"

Under other circumstances the question might have annoyed him, but the look of helpless worry in the older man's eyes made him realise how much this concerned his uncle. His youngest daughter was going to go away to a place of mystery for no less than ten years. She was now almost sixteen; she would be twenty-six if and when she returned, a grown woman, a stranger in many ways. He placed his hand over his uncle's and nodded, "I will do my best to deliver her safe and sound to the Stede, you have my word Uncle."

Raoul Wingate stared into his nephew's eyes for long seconds, then, letting out a sigh he patted Richard's hand, nodding as if the matter were concluded. "Then a cheerful countenance for the ladies, right?"

As if on cue, his aunt and cousin had entered just then and the family had sat down for supper. Now, the plates cleared away by the maid, the cool evening breeze gently wafting the curtains, they discussed the practical matters of the trip. Though Richard had objected, both his Aunt and Uncle had been adamant the expenses of the trip be theirs, his uncle handing over a heavy purse. He'd also added a much smaller one saying "Keep this well-hidden and about your person, there are some precious stones within, should you need to make some extraordinary payment or loose the purse, they will stand you in good stead. And this also you should keep about you and not let out of your sight," handing him a small length of very fine material.

The material was about a foot square, extremely soft and almost translucent. Symbols were painted on it in a curious vertical pattern; four columns of equal length and a fifth a little shorter. Looking across the table at his uncle, he raised his eyebrow in question.

"The material is called silk, it comes from across the seas to the east. The symbols are recognisable to guild masters the land over. Should you be in desperate needs, look for a guild house in the closest city and hand that to the Master. He will supply you with whatever is needed."

"Why not paper, why this silk?" he'd inquired.

"Paper can become wet, it can be easily burnt or torn. It is also the first thing a suspicious soldier or Marshal will look for. That is simply some lady's keepsake, something you were given when starting this journey …. nothing more. It does not matter if it gets wet, it is strong enough not to be easily torn and it will even withstand a few seconds of fire. You can fold it into a small size and it will not become torn or creased." Richard nodded and folded the piece neatly on the table, later he would look for somewhere safe to keep both the gems and the 'silk'.

The following morning he saddled Santhall and checked saddlebags and accoutrements. His aunt had supplied fresh food to replace that consumed on the trip to Alessus and his clothes had been washed and pressed overnight; they still felt a little damp but would soon dry out. His cousin's roan was saddled and her personal belongings strapped to the saddle. With the limitations on what could be taken to the Stede be Cnawan, there was no point in her taking much, however on the trip they were to give the impression of normalcy and so the packhorse carried a number of cases of clothes and personal belongings which should assuage anyone's curiosity or suspicions.

There were tearful hugs and wet kisses and it was gone eight, the sun already well up, when Richard led his cousin and the packhorse out onto the street at the back of the houses. They turned, offered last waves and then set the horses at a quick walk up towards the thoroughfare ahead. They eased their way into the morning traffic, the seeming chaos of carts and horses and pedestrians eventually sorting itself out and Richard found himself heading towards the Western Gate, regularly turning his head to keep a check on his cousin. By the time they reached the gate, a twin of the Great Eastern Gate, Richard had relaxed somewhat, his cousin appeared to be an able rider; he'd been concerned as they'd threaded their way through the pandemonium of the city's streets in the early morning, but she was right behind the packhorse which was hitched to his saddle, unconcern plain on her face and it was only then he realised she was probably much more familiar and used to this than he was.

They threaded their way through the gates, past the guards on the raised platforms, past the foot soldiers on either side of the road and soon they were able to shake the horses into a trot, the thinning traffic along the road making the going easier. Richard glanced back at the walled city of Alessus and felt relieved to be out in the open, the sun warming his back, the air cool on his face. After a couple of miles he slowed to a walk, checked that they were relatively alone; a cart was approaching in the distance, baskets and other wickerwork items piled high in the back on their way to the market in Alessus. A mile or so behind them a rider trotted along then eased his horse to a walk just about the same time they did. He glanced at the packhorse, checking that everything was still in place … he hadn't been the one to load the horse … and then turned back to Innogen who rode at his side.

She'd been quiet since leaving and he needed to make sure she was alright. "How are you doing cousin?"

He caught the amused look she threw him before she added, "For pity's sake Richard, stop calling me cousin all the time, it makes me feel like a ten-year-old!"

"Pardon me! I realise now that your being such a mature and 'ooold' lady, being called cousin must be galling!"

There was a gurgle of laughter and he grinned back at her, "All right, Innogen, how are you doing?"

She nodded, "I'm fine, you don't need to worry about me, I saw you checking back every few minutes, I expected you to ride into something at any time and get knocked off your horse! Not the type of quiet departure we had in mind."

The comment made Richard turn his head sharply towards her and then he saw the poking tongue. Thank the stars for that! At least there was still something of the fifteen year-old hiding below the calm demeanour. The driver with the cartload of wickerwork called out a greeting as they passed and when he glanced back a few moments later, noted the rider behind them remained about a mile behind.

He turned back and looked up at the sky, they had left the city almost an hour ago, time to walk the horses for a little. These were their only mounts; they did not have a string of mounts they could keep changing saddles on and they needed to be ridden easily. Sometime during this trip they might need to get away quickly, and tired horses would not be much good for that. He nodded to a group of trees a little ahead and said, "We'll dismount when we reach those trees, walk the horses a little …."

Innogen glanced at the trees and nodded, leaning forward to pat her roan's neck.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9 – The Traveller**

 ** _AN: Story Map on Photobucket … lol, I needed this just to stop myself getting confused! (Delete blank spaces and replace 'dot' with . and * with / )_**

 ** _ ** _1055 dot photobucket dot_** com * albums * s505 * Academia-Ideas * Castle * Forged%20in%20Heat%202_2 dot jpg _**

* * *

As the sun began to sink behind the distant mountains to the west and the evening gloom settled in around them, Richard calculated they must have travelled nearly thirty miles. Soon they would need to find somewhere to settle down for the night; an inn, a farmhouse or out in the open if the worst came to the worst. His trips to the capital had taken him further north and this area was relatively unknown to him.

There was also the small matter of the traveller who had kept his distance throughout the day. It might mean nothing, perhaps he just liked to travel alone, but it would have been much more natural for him to have caught up with them and offered to accompany them until their ways parted; there was always safety in numbers when travelling.

He glanced back over his shoulder and found he couldn't make out the rider, either he'd stopped for the night and was no longer behind them or the gloom was making it difficult to distinguish horse and rider from the surrounding trees. If that was the case then they too would be indistinguishable to the rider ….

Telling Innogen to follow him, he turned his mount off to the left, threading their way between the trunks and branches until the road was almost hidden from view. They dismounted and he told her to keep her horse quiet, pulling the packhorse up and rubbing both its and Santhall's noses and whispering quietly to them. The last thing he wanted was for one of their mounts to neigh or snort and draw attention to them.

It was perhaps ten minutes before they heard the approaching hooves. The rider was moving at a quick trot, possibly trying to make up ground in the encroaching darkness. He felt the packhorse's nostrils fluttering and blew gently into them, quieting any intention it might have had of making their presence known. The hoof falls continued on their way and faded into the distance. He let another ten minutes pass before leading the horses back out onto the road and mounting, all the while ignoring the questioning looks from his cousin.

About twenty minutes later some lights appeared ahead and he slowed them to a walk as they approached. They pulled up near a tree and he looked over the scene before him. It was a small hamlet of some half a dozen buildings, four of them looking like workers' cottages with the warm yellow glow of oil lamps shining through the small windows and casting fan shaped patches of light over the ground outside. The fifth was obviously a stable, the wide barn doors open in the cool evening, a number of lamps hanging from the overhead beams offering a clear view of the stalls inside, the bales of hay stacked in the back and an old ostler carrying a bucket of water into one of the stalls.

Next to it stood a single story inn, a lamp and iron sign above the door. Nudging his horse forward, Richard led the way into the stable and slid off his mount, telling Innogen to remain mounted. The ostler had turned and was looking at them from the stall as he held the bucket for the horse to drink from. There were about twenty stalls all together, but only five held horses.

Richard stepped up to the stall and gave the old boy his best smile, offering a good evening and running his hand over the horse's rump and back. There was sweaty dampness to the area that would have born the saddle, the liver chestnut lifted its head from the bucket and turned to look at him curiously as water dripped from its muzzle, before turning back to the bucket, ears twitching. Richard ran his eyes over the horse, noting the white sock on the off-fore, the downward swirling whorl on the rump and the small patch of white just above the left hock. He would know the horse in future, should he come across it.

The ostler finished watering the horse and they both stepped out of the stalls. Richard indicated that Innogen should dismount and they led the horses to the rear of the stables, the ostler's initial reluctance overcome by a couple of pennies from Richard's purse. They unsaddled the horses, brushed them down and added a couple of handfuls of oats from one of the saddle bags to the feed. The ostler carried the saddles into the tack room and brought back three buckets of water which he set down outside the stalls before seeing to the packhorse. They talked about the weather, the state of the roads up ahead and about the local news as they checked the hooves and cleaned them out, brushed out manes and tails and then closed the stall doors behind them. With the working relationship established, Richard turned to the ostler and asked about the rider of the chestnut, explaining that he was escorting his rich cousin to the capital and was suspicious of the rider who had given them a long, considering look as he'd ridden past them in the gloom.

Whether the ostler believed him or not, he gave them a description of the rider and added the information that if his cousin wished discretion, she could always enter the inn through the kitchen and so avoid having to do so through the front room. Richard thanked him, slipped another penny into his hand … while silently offering thanks to his Uncle's insistence on the provisions of funds … and picking up his cousin's bags, followed them out through the back of the stables and round to the kitchen door.

The smell of food made his stomach grumble and the cook threw him an amused look as the innkeeper, advised of the arrival of a wealthy patron in his humble abode, ushered them through into one of the private parlours at the back of the inn. Richard arranged for a private room for his cousin and kicked her shin when she began to indignantly claim that if she was to have a private bedroom then he should too. He agreed to have dinner with her in the parlour, but then added that he would spend the night in the main room. The innkeeper backed out with a bow, adding that food would soon be served and closed the door behind him.

Innogen was on the point of heatedly demanding to be told what he was up to when he put his finger to his lip and pointed to the bottom of the closed door. She turned to look and raised eyebrows in surprise as she noted the shadow blocking part of the light from the passageway outside.

Richard began to talk of their plans for the next day, and if his voice was a little loud, he didn't seem to notice. They would head southwest in the morning until they reached the River, he wasn't sure if they would do so by evening or not, perhaps they would need to find another inn. Then they would look for a ferry or ford crossing and continue to …. he paused when the shadow moved away and then turned to Innogen.

"Look, I could be building molehills out of nothing, but I need to keep an eye on those in the front room, being hidden away in a private room won't help at all."

"You think the rider was following us?"

He shrugged, "I don't know, maybe he doesn't like company, maybe he just prefers to travel alone, but he kept his distance all day and we aren't exactly a threatening couple. We'll leave early In the morning, before anyone else is up, I want to put distance between us and any possible followers, so when we've eaten, go to bed and get a good night's sleep, we'll need to be on our way at sunup."

After that they talked about mundane things, the knock on the door interrupting them and then the innkeeper entered followed by a maid. They enjoyed a first course of miniature pastries filled with beef marrow, a cameline meat brewet, the pieces of meat served in a delicious, thin cinnamon sauce and loach in a cold green sauce flavoured with spices and sage. The dishes were cleared away and the second course of freshwater fish, a meat tile with pieces of chicken, simmered, sautéed and served in a spiced sauce was laid before them. The third course was made up of frumenty, fritters and sturgeon.

With his stomach now satisfactorily filled, Richard told Innogen to lock the door to her room behind him and headed out the kitchen door, round the back of the inn and entered through the front door. The layout was very similar to Morgan's Inn back in the valley, only the stairs to the upper floor missing and in its stead a doorway in the back wall leading to the private parlours and rooms and through to the kitchen at the back.

There was a group of four men standing at the wooden-planked counter to the right, an earthenware pitcher before them and four drinking jugs close to their elbows. They were throwing dice and barely spared him a glance as the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. They gave all the appearance of locals, possibly from the cottages around. Four men sat at the table near the door, their clothes and swarthy features identifying them as traders, possibly from the south. There were bags on the floor beneath their feet and the dinner plates were being wiped clean with the last of the bread.

At the far end of the room, close to the door leading to the back of the inn, a man sat alone. He wore a leather jerkin not unlike Richard's, currently unbuckled and showing a pale blue gambeson below. Thick black hair was brushed back leaving a widow's peak in the centre of his forehead above thick eyebrows which protruded over deep-set eyes. It was as much as he could take in in an apparently cursory glance around the room, before turning to the counter and leaning his elbows on the top. As in Morgan's Inn and most inns around the country, the back wall was hung with local produce, tools and artisan works. The inns were often the sampling rooms where traders could find and inspect local products and the local population could obtain essential items without having to travel great distances.

On the wall before him hung a number of copper pots and pans, their sheen reflecting the slightly distorted glow from overhead lamps. They also reflected the room behind him, not smoothly, like a mirror, but sufficient for him to note the interested stare from the man at the back of the room.

He ordered a beer from the young lad behind the counter and carried it, along with his blanket and saddlebags over to a vacant table. Something in him desperately wanted to go and sit at the table across from their shy travel companion, to force the issue out into the open, but he was aware of the fact that this could have little to do with him, that perhaps it was Innogen who was the person of interest in this and it was his job to keep her safe. So he curbed his natural inclination and sat down with his back to the wall, looking across the room at the counter and the four locals who seemed to have finished their game of dice and were emptying the last dregs of their beer. The four traders sat at the table next to his, quietly discussing matters in a thick accent he could barely understand, just an occasional word suggesting they had something to do with the decorative floor carpets and wall hangings to be found in some of the better city houses.

He turned his head slowly, found the other occupant staring at him from under his thick brows and gave a polite nod of acknowledgement. The man quickly looked down and Richard hid a grin. He would hopefully have given the impression of unconcerned casualness. The two pennies and a promise of a further two for a quiet, early departure would hopefully keep the ostler silent aboutf his interest in the man across the room. The whereabouts of his cousin would depend on the innkeeper's discretion or loyalties and he held little expectation in either matter … his eavesdropping at the parlour door might be simple curiosity … or something more sinister.

Widow's Peak across the room might have already guessed his cousin's whereabouts or might well have been informed by the innkeeper or one of the maids, he had no way of knowing. If not, he was bound to be curious about his travel companion's location …. unless of course he was nothing more than a solitary traveller who preferred his own company to those of others.

The four locals left and those remaining settled down for the night. Richard chose the floor between his table and that of the four traders with whom he'd exchanged polite nods and good nights, the four of them occupying the floor the other side of their table and under the open window through which a cool breeze occasionally wafted.

He shifted onto his side, tucking the saddlebags under his head and allowing his eyes to grow accustomed to the gloom and semi-darkness around them. The one remaining oil lamp hanging near the front door had been turned right down, offering just a faint glow to any of the occupants who might need to make use of the latrine outside. Slowly, he was able to make out the shape of the figure occupying the bench at the far end of the room; the blanked draped over him though the warm temperature hardly called for it. He closed his eyes, let his hand settle on the hilt of the knife and tuned his ears to the back of the room.

He woke several times during the night, some shift in one of the occupant's position, a change in the tone or volume of the snores. Each time his eyes checked the far end of room before dropping closed once more. The fourth time he awoke, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted across the room. The figure continued to lie atop the bench, though he was now on his back, the blanket having slipped onto the floor, only the end entangled around his feet draping itself upwards in the gloom. As quietly as he could he turned his head to look out the window at the front. He could make out the pale oblong of sky outside, the sun was not yet up, but the first tell-tale signs of dawn were there. He climbed quietly to his feet, gathered his belongings together and remembering the creaking floorboards from the night before, made his way silently to the half-open door of the inn. He stepped outside, bare feet feeling the cool of the earth beneath them. He moved to the window, keeping low and gave a slow count to ten before slowly straightening and peering over the sill. All five occupants of the room appeared to be unaware or uninterested in his departure. No one had moved. Satisfied he ducked back down and made his way to the stable. He used the water pump to fill a bucket and washed himself down, the horses in the stalls turning their heads and staring curiously at him.

Whether the ostler was a light sleeper or was aware of his desire for an early departure he didn't know, but he appeared from the back of the stables rubbing sleep from his eyes and scratching himself. He nodded to Richard and disappeared into the tack room, returning moments later with the first of their saddles and bridles.

Richard nodded to him in appreciation and pulling on his gambeson over his still damp skin, made his way out the back and round to the kitchen door. There was already a light on inside and his knock on the door brought a sleepy-eyed maid to open it. If she was surprised to see him it didn't show, perhaps she was not yet awake enough for the oddity to have registered, or the use of the kitchen door by guests was not such an uncommon procedure.

He asked her to quietly wake his cousin and to ask her to come through the kitchen to the stables as soon as she was ready. Another penny dropped into a willing palm brought a bit of life into the eyes and briskness into her movement as she turned and headed for the passageway beyond.

He returned to the stables and helped the ostler saddle and pack the horses, adding another handful of oats to their feed and making sure they had sufficient water to drink. They led the horses out through the back and tied them up to a hitching post even as the first tinge of pink touched the sky to the east. His cousin emerged looking a little bedraggled and not a little annoyed at the early start, but she said nothing as they strapped her overnight bags to the packhorse. The maid emerged from the kitchen once more and shyly handed him a muslin bag. He opened it and smelt the heavenly aroma of freshly baked bread and saw some slices of smoked ham. He smiled and nodded his thanks and she turned back and disappeared through the kitchen doorway. Checking that Innogen was ready he told her that they should walk their horses until far enough away from the inn.

With a nod, she took hold of her horse's bridle and led the way across the back yard and into the trees beyond. They circled round, keeping the small hamlet on their left until the first, early morning sounds and the smell of wood fire in the quiet air faded away behind them. They stepped out from amongst the trees onto the road almost a mile to the northwest of the hamlet and climbed up into their saddles. Stopping Innogen, he delved into the muslin bag, pulled out the bread and tore a good piece off it, Santhall stomping impatiently beneath him. He wrapped the bread round a thick slice of the smoked ham and handed it to Innogen before preparing a similar piece for himself. Tying the bag onto the horn, he nudged his knee into Santhall's side and they moved off along the quiet road, the first birdcalls breaking the silence around them as they bit into their breakfast.

They covered more ground that day, the early start and the overnight rest, however fitful, allowing them to make up for the late start the day before. The landscape around them slowly changed from flat fields to rolling hills, the grain crops giving way to vineyards and orchards, the neatly planted trees marching in serried ranks up and down the gentle slopes. Beyond these rolling hills, Richard told Innogen, they would emerge onto the Feinian Plains, miles and miles of grasslands and farms which would eventually come to a momentary stop at the banks of the Afon Aran … only to continue on the other side once again.

They met several travellers along the way, some heading southwards, back the way they had come, others turning off to head down one of the dusty tracks which led to farmsteads sheltering within the rolling countryside and glimpsed only occasionally as they climbed a rise or dropped down into the next shallow valley.

At midday they stopped beneath a large cedar near the top of a rise. They tethered the horses near patch of succulent grass a little further down the slope and settled down with their backs to the crinkly bark of the trunk. They drank deeply from the water skin and finished the rest of the bread and ham from breakfast, stretching their legs out and enjoying the cool breeze which brushed across the hilltop.

"Any sign of our companion?"

Richard turned his head sharply to look at his cousin, thought about denying it and then shrugged in resignation. He obviously hadn't been as discreet as he'd thought checking back whenever they topped a rise, but at least he could ease her mind a little. "Nothing so far; a couple of riders, some carts … they're obviously local as they never showed for more than a few miles. No, I think our friend is either southbound, fruitlessly searching for us or still well behind … of course, he may not even be interested in us anyway!"

"But you don't think so?"

It may have been posed as a question, but the look on her face told him he'd best be honest with her. "I honestly don't know. As I said, he could just be someone who prefers to travel alone and happened to be heading in the same direction as us …. or not. Whichever it is, there's nothing much we can do about it right now, we'll have to wait and see if he turns up again somewhere along our trail."


End file.
